


Bedroom Tales

by Junejuly15



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 'Sex doesn't alarm me', A Three Garridebs Moment, Angry John, Angst, Breakfast in Bed, Camping, Declarations Of Love, Established Relationship, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, HLV-Fix it, Hints at Drug Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, Husbands, I Love You, Insecure Sherlock, Insomnia, Jam, John cares, John is abducted, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Masturbation, Military Kink, Post-Reichenbach, Redbeard - Freeform, Retirementlock, Romance, Sadness, Sexy Fluff, Sherlock Panics, Sherlock is sick, Sick Fic, Sleepy Cuddles, Voyeurism, Wedding Present, popping the question, see-through bathrooms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-27
Updated: 2015-02-10
Packaged: 2018-01-21 00:04:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 43,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1530662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Junejuly15/pseuds/Junejuly15
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bedroom Tales is a collection of John and Sherlock ficlets</p><p>They are set at various stages of their relationship and are in no particular order. Some are fluffy, some sexy, some angsty, there is hurt and comfort, romance and love. What unites them is that they all play in a bedroom, but not necessarily the one in 221B.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sherlock can't sleep

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much for reading and it would be ever so lovely if you told me what you think of it.  
> I will more or less regularly add a chapter to these tales, and if you have any prompt you would like to see used, don't hesitate to tell me :)
> 
> JJ xx

When John woke it was with a rather unbecoming snort. Inwardly he cursed the fact that he had woken at all and, as the almost absolute darkness surrounding him indicated, in the middle of the night. God, how he hated being woken, hated it because he knew he would have trouble finding back to sleep. For John it was either uninterrupted sleep and therefore a good start into the following day or lying awake for whatever reason and as a result being cranky and irritable in the morning.

Staring at the ceiling John tried to relax, willing himself back to sleep. Apart from him the whole city seemed to be asleep if the silence engulfing him was anything to go by. No sound could be heard in the house, no creaking floorboard, no toilet being flushed. Even Baker Street was quiet, no cars passing by, no sweetly sighing wind lifting some stray paper and playfully whirling it around for a while, and what was more, there was no sound in their bedroom. In fact it was so very quiet, eerily quiet even, as if someone was holding his breath as to not disturb, as to not be noticed.

'Sherlock, what are you doing?'

'Trying to be quiet. I thought this much was obvious.'

'It _is_ ,' John conceded, just that tiny bit peeved. 'The question is why are you trying to be quiet?'

'I did not want to disturb you, but I _can't_ sleep,' Sherlock sounded petulant as if it was John's fault. John sighed. If anything it was John's _fault_ that Sherlock had in fact slept much better than ever in the past few weeks they had been sharing a bedroom. It seemed that having company, loving company, had a calming influence on even the most buzzing mind, allowed even someone as hyperactive as Sherlock to relax and slumber. John, on the other hand, slept worse than ever. And as Sherlock, if asked, would be quick to concede, lack of sleep made John a little less than amiable, to put it mildly.

'Well, what do you expect me to do about it?' John gave his pillow a few angry shoves, and settled in for a longer interruption.

'I don't know, there's probably not much you _can_ do,' Sherlock said thoughtfully, but he managed to make it sound as if this problem was definitely worth to be given a lot of thought. He was silent for a moment, but then his voice cut through the darkness again. 'I could get up if I disturb you? There's actually an experiment waiting in the kitchen … bread mould, very interesting.'

'No,' John said. 'No need to get up. You will crawl back into bed in an hour or so with ice cold toes and shove them between my legs to warm them up. And then I'll be wide awake again. Stay.'

'Good.' Sherlock said and nodded into the darkness. John was only mildly angry and seemed to be sufficiently awake, maybe he could ask him a favour.

'There is actually something you might be able to do for me.' Sherlock hesitated, pondering if he could really dare asking this. 'Could you …maybe … touch me a bit. Not in a sexual way, just soothing, calming touches. Only recently I have read reports claiming that babies find back to sleep much more easily when their mothers or fathers lightly caress them.'

'Well, you're not a baby.'

'An astute observation, John.'

Silence settled between them, and John was almost dozing off again when a rather small voice asked again.

'Well, would you?'

'Right - C'm here.'

Sherlock made a mental note of John's clipped speech, usually either a sign of irritation or sleepiness, but in this instance he could not yet decide which was prominent, not without gathering more data. Maybe later, he thought. Right now he was happy to settle against John's side, placing his head on John's warm chest.

John started lightly brushing his fingertips over Sherlock's skin, starting at the back of his hand, then his wrist, circling his elbow and up to his biceps and down again, repeating the routine. It was a tickling, a gentle, a too soft sensation. And every time John's fingertips reached Sherlock's upper arm, the thin fabric of his sleep shirt dulled the feather-light sensation to an almost nonexistent touch. Sherlock sighed impatiently.

'It's not working!'

'Hm?' John seemed to have drifted back to sleep – almost. 'What?'

'I don't even feel your touch. How is that supposed to calm me?'

'Right.'

John applied a bit more pressure, but it was hard to keep the irritation away from his touch and Sherlock started to wiggle.

'Stop it!' John said. 'How on earth do you want to go back to sleep when you don't keep still?'

'Your touch is just not right. You should establish an even pressure, light enough to be pleasant and firm enough to be noticed. Can't be that hard, John!'

John decided to ignore the commands and resumed his task of caressing his love back to sleep. And indeed, Sherlock soon seemed to relax a bit, the tension leaving his body, his grip on John's t-shirt less forceful. But then John's arm started to tingle and he lost all feeling in it and there was no way around it, he needed to move. So John shifted rather forcefully, jiggling Sherlock's head on his chest.

'Stop fidgeting!' Sherlock demanded.

'Oh, that's rich!' John huffed. 'I'm the one caressing you while my arms loses all feeling because _your_ heavy head is stopping the blood flow. Not to mention that _you_ are keeping me awake and now _you_ want me to stop fidgeting? Right!' Abruptly John sat up, ignoring Sherlock's indignant grunt when his head plopped onto the mattress.

'What are you doing?'

'I'm off to my bedr… to the spare room. I have locum work tomorrow and quite frankly I need a few hours of sleep! Good night!'

'John! Don't leave me here!'

Sherlock sat up, his face bearing the expression of a child being denied the second piece of chocolate, unable to believe that John would really leave him alone in their bed. The corners of his mouth turned down sullenly, but John ignored him and left the room. Sherlock gave the duvet a few angry little kicks before he slumped back onto the bed. Turning onto his side he curled up into a foetal position, the hope to ever find back to sleep gone with his John.

John was almost up the stairs to his old bedroom when he stopped and allowed his anger to slowly vaporise. Leaning against the cold wall he huffed. The hall window was leaking and an icy draft wafted towards him, tickling his toes and naked legs. The chill quickly became uncomfortable making him miss the blissful warmth Sherlock's body usually exuded. Despite what John had said in his irritation about ice cold toes it was in fact Sherlock, who was a veritable hothouse, who warmed John when they snuggled up in bed.

'Oh, bloody hell…' John hissed and turned on his heels.

 

**oo**

 

'Right,' John softly said, closing the bedroom door behind him, his irritation almost, but not entirely gone from his voice. With a bit more noise than strictly necessary John lifted the duvet and slipped back underneath the covers. Sherlock was facing away from him, lying on his side, his knees drawn up to his chest. John snuggled up to him, spooning his warm body.

'Hmm, you're so warm.'

'Don't do that, John.' Sherlock mumbled and John's heart clenched when the hurt and sadness registered.

'Do what, love?'

'Leaving me alone.'

'I was angry because I really need some sleep …'

'Yes,' Sherlock interrupted him, his voice low and sleepy. 'I understand, I was insufferable, and I am sorry, but please don't ever do that again.'

John kissed Sherlock's bony shoulder and moved his hand soothingly up and down his arms, careful to exert just the right amount of gentle pressure, making sure that Sherlock would feel his touch this time.

'That's good.' Sherlock muttered after a while. 'Go on … don't stop…' His last words were almost inaudible and when John kissed his shoulder again and buried his nose in Sherlock's curls, he realised that he had drifted off to sleep.

'Sleep well, impatient git,' John whispered affectionately, well aware that it was only with Sherlock that he could use an insult as a term of endearment.


	2. Sherlock alone at home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is attending a conference in Manchester and Sherlock misses him a lot. Apart from that terrible longing he feels, he is of course his usual self: restless and bored and in need of distraction.
> 
> Okay, here comes one of the sexy chapters :)
> 
> Enjoy reading!

Sherlock sighed.

He closed his eyes, exhaled slowly - and sighed again.

It was so hard to stop thinking. So unbelievably hard to convince his buzzing brain to slow down a tad and ideally come to a standstill.

He needed to calm down and there was no way around it. Since this morning, after John had left, Sherlock had been working himself into a frenzy, a frenzy exacerbated by this terrible hollow feeling in his chest and by excessive boredom. What a delicious paradox that was, Sherlock thought and smirked. Well, delicious it might be as a theoretical problem, but in practice it was less appealing somehow. Life in general was less appealing - without John.

Of course, that was the crux of the problem. John was not here, not in 221B, wasn't even in London, because this morning he had left for a medical conference in Manchester, and he would not be back before Saturday - _Two more days - and nights_ \- Sherlock thought and snorted mirthlessly.

So far the day had crawled by in a strange melee of moods, agonizingly slow hours interspersed with electric bouts, in short, a terrible morning giving way to an even more abhorrent afternoon. Obviously, Sherlock had kept himself occupied as best as he could, but somehow the emptiness of the flat had been oppressive and this restlessness bordering on hysteria had been like an army of ants marching beneath his skin.

Of course he was used to being alone in the flat, but it was different when he knew John would be home in the evening and would be there for him, take care of him, brew him a cup of tea, make him eat. A loud growling reminded Sherlock that all he had eaten today had been a piece of toast in the morning, together with John.

Maybe twenty minutes ago the situation had become unbearable, this hollow emptiness, this electric buzzing and he had retreated to their bedroom. From past experience he knew that being somewhere he felt comfortable helped him.

Stretching out on their bed helped.

Thinking about John definitely helped.

Holding something belonging to John might actually do the trick as Sherlock had found out one rainy afternoon when he had been similarly restless and John not there, but working overtime in the surgery. He had found peace then, snuggling up to John's pillow, his scent enveloping him, brushing over his skin like soft soothing fingers, enabling him to relax. His mind had stopped reeling and he had fallen asleep and woken refreshed two hours later, ready to make it through the rest of the day until John's return.

Today was different, though. Holding John's pillow, sniffing it, was not nearly enough and when this action did not show the desired effect Sherlock stuffed the pillow back under the covers. Next was John's striped jumper which he pinched from the linen basket and sat down with it on the bed, kneading the material, analysing its depth and complexity. All to no avail and he let it fall to the floor with a grunt.

His skin was fairly tingling with impatience now. Sherlock glanced at his twitching fingers and at his left leg jiggling nervously up and down as he was sitting on the edge of their bed. He huffed, almost at the end of his tether now, inexplicable to him why his body stubbornly ignored the orders of his mind. With an exasperated sigh he lay back and looked up to the ceiling.

Supine he felt a bit better, lighter somehow, and he exhaled, once, twice, the deliberate slow breathing pleasant. Stretching his back he fixed his gaze to the ceiling, his hands lying loosely at his side, calmer now. Even in the dim light of the small lamp he could make out the dozens of cracks in the old light maroon paint, and squinting he studied the depths and severity of those cracks. If he was honest it looked very shabby indeed. Narrowing his eyes he tried to gauge when the next coat of paint would be inevitable. Soon, he decided. It definitely had to be done very soon.

He closed his eyes and tried to calm down his breathing some more, and suddenly he saw John, standing on their wooden stepladder, dressed in his old, tatty jeans, full of holes, and his army t-shirt, the faded, dark green one, the one Sherlock had a soft spot for. He was holding a paint brush in his hands, sweat gleaming on his brow, and he was smiling down at him. The image was so vivid, seemed so real that Sherlock was sure to smell the paint.

His breath hitched in his throat and he opened his eyes, relishing the very vivid image of John, balancing on the ladder and stretching his arms to reach a particular spot on the ceiling. Of course, he was dabbing at it stubbornly, and his t-shirt was riding up and exposing his soft, but muscular belly. Concentrating hard, John's tongue slipped out like a lizard's, wetting his lips. Sherlock smiled and lightly placed his hand on his shirt, his fingers feathering out, playing with the fabric, absent-mindedly pulling it out from his trousers and then brushing his fingers over his warm skin. It felt good, this touch and he imagined John noticing and turning his attention entirely to him. He would be focusing on the slow movement, becoming aware of Sherlock's fingers gently stroking his own bare skin. The soft chuckle Sherlock believed to hear was so real as if John was in the room with him.

Heat collected in Sherlock's belly, moving from there to all his limbs, filling him pleasantly, excitingly and he increased the pressure of his fingers on his skin, adding his other hand and slowly moving up his chest, underneath his shirt, up and down, up and down, always softly brushing over his nipples until they were hard and straining against the fabric of his tight shirt. One by one he then undid the buttons and let his shirt fall open. The chill in the room caressed his naked chest and he moaned softly, arching his back

– _Oh, that's beautiful, Sherlock_ –

And again he heard the soft chuckle and when Sherlock's hand moved down to the waistband of his trousers, resting there a moment as if waiting for permission to proceed he heard a sharp intake of breath and then the whispered words

– _Go on, show me_ –

Sherlock unbuttoned his pants and pulled down the zipper, but then he stilled his hands, waiting, prolonging the moment, the delicious moments which still left you a choice, not that Sherlock wanted to have one right now, far from it. But since being with John he had always loved those moments which were still quite innocent, but already filled with a glorious promise. Slowly Sherlock let both hands slide over his hips, gliding over the smooth surface of his trousers and down the outside of his thighs. He let his hands lightly rest on his legs, enjoying the anticipation, the excitement, and he waited again, becoming utterly still.

– _Oh, what a tease you are, go on_ –

Sherlock grinned and then both hands moved towards the inside of his thighs, his thumbs moving in little, firm circles and then upwards to his groin. He was half hard and he cupped himself through the fabric of his trousers. The heat seemed to leave all his limbs and pool in his groin. Sherlock bit his lips and, softly first, he rubbed his hand up and down his length, quickly growing fully hard

– _Jesus, Sherlock… Look at you_ –

John's voice enveloped him, so soft and yet so arousing, and Sherlock's movements became less controlled, free and shameless. He opened his mouth and moaned, arching his back, giving himself entirely to the rhythm he established, moving his hand up and down, stroking his erection through the trousers

– _Go on, now, love… Come on …_ –

Permission given, Sherlock could not hold back any longer and slipped his hand inside his pants, covering the velvety, hot skin. He imagined John watching him, growing hard and touching himself while he watched, and with delicious slow strokes he moved closer and closer until he came with John's name on his lips.

**ooo**

Sherlock must have fallen asleep, relaxed and spent. Desired sleep, but light sleep nonetheless, as the soft trilling noise of his mobile was enough to wake him. After a moment of awkward disorientation - he was lying on their bed, his shirt unbuttoned and his trousers open – Sherlock relaxed and a slow smile spread over his face. Quickly sitting up he grabbed his phone from the night table.

'John!'

A soft chuckle answered his eager tone, 'I miss you too.'

John's voice sent memories of earlier pleasures down Sherlock's spine and he smirked. John was silent, his phone obviously pressed against his chest while he was walking. The background noise, maybe that of a pub or of the hotel bar, was muffled and when the noise grew even quieter he knew that John had stepped outside. With a content sigh he lay back on the bed.

'How's the conference going?'

'Predictable. Boring you might say. Met an old friend from uni.' John stopped talking to Sherlock and greeted someone who passed him. 'We might go for a drink later.'

'Handsome?'

'It's a woman!'

'Nevertheless.'

'Jealous?

'Should I be?'

'No need.'

'Then I'm not.'

'Excellent. How was your day?'

'Dull, boring, predictable. No new case has come up since this morning.'

'Greg wasn't in touch?'

'No. Neither did I get a reply to any of my texts. He must be quite pleased with himself. Working on his own, no need for my input.' Sherlock sighed theatrically and John chuckled. 'Ah, and Mrs Hudson is out, went to her sister's or best friend's … I can't remember which, I must have filtered. Which leaves the house awfully quiet with you not being here either.' Another deep sigh. 'I really don't know why you deemed it absolutely necessary to attend this boring conference.' John was about to interrupt, so he quickly added. 'So I was reduced to making plans for the renovation of our flat.'

'Renovation? Our flat? _Bloody hell_ , the depth of your boredom must be unfathomable.'

'Clearly!' Sherlock fell quiet and intently studied the ceiling again - it definitely, definitely, was in need of paint. Something important occurred to him then, and he sat up. 'Have you still got your old army t-shirt? The dark green one.'

'Yes,' there was an astonished silence. 'Why?'

'I was thinking about starting with our bedroom, maybe a new coat of paint for the walls. It all looks quite shabby, especially the ceiling. Would off-white suit you?'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the huge response the first chapter got. I'm very grateful for all this positive feedback! I hope you like this one as well …
> 
> See you!
> 
> JJ xx


	3. Away on a case

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A case takes Sherlock and John away from London, and so they need a place to stay overnight. Unfortunately all hotels are fully booked and at such short notice all they can find is a double room.
> 
> A double room with a double bed for Sherlock and John who are not a couple … yet

'Listen,' John dropped his voice and glanced at Sherlock, who seemed busy watching the comings and goings in the hotel lobby. 'What we need for tonight are two single rooms, or at the very least a twin.'

'I'm awfully sorry, sir, but our house is booked solid. We have three conventions in town, and as you unfortunately overlooked to notify us in advance …' Politeness hindered the receptionist to finish his sentence, the implication as to whom was to blame for this incommodity crystal clear nevertheless. 'I'm awfully sorry, sir.'

'Doctor, actually. It's Doctor John Watson.'

'Of course. I'm very sorry, Doctor Watson. Let me check again for you,' He made a show of checking the computer screen again, tapping a few keys, frowning, raising an impeccable eyebrow, ending the show on a not entirely honest 'Ah, there we are!' He smiled as if he was genuinely delighted and surprised by what the screen had revealed to him. 'Aren't you a lucky man! There has been a last minute cancellation.'

'There has?'

'Yes, indeed! It's a rather lovely double room on the second floor.'

'Listen!' John sounded peeved, the anger rising and already painting a thunderous red on his cheeks. 'I think I've made myself _quite_ clear. We need _two_ rooms!'

'It's a very modern room, beautifully decorated.' The receptionist replied, unfazed by John's threatening tone. 'One of our premium rooms in fact. I'm sure it's going to meet your standards, Doctor Watson. Let me tell you an interesting detail: This particular room has been recently featured in an international interior magazine.' He leaned closer as if about to share a saucy detail. 'It even has a …'

'Fascinating!' Sherlock rudely interrupted the receptionist's confession. 'I'm sure, it will be perfectly suitable.' Sherlock lightly touched John's shoulder, nonchalantly ignoring the way John's body stiffened in response and the indignant pout on the receptionist's pudgy face. 'If you could hand us the key cards? We are rather exhausted and need some rest.' Sherlock smiled at the receptionist and neither his icy smile nor his words left any room for contradiction.

'Of course,' the man looked a bit flustered, but was professional enough to regain his composure in no time. 'If you could sign here, please?'

Sherlock signed the form with flourish, grabbed the two key cards and strode to the lift, leaving John no choice but to follow.

 

 

**ooo**

 

 

'He was right,' Sherlock exclaimed as he entered the room, immediately personalising it by leaving a trail of clothes on the floor from the door to the bed, first the great coat, followed by his blue scarf, then the suit jacket and even his shoes. With an appraising glance he plopped down onto the double bed. 'It's rather nice!'

John looked at him, incredulous, his mouth pinched - This was not good, this was unexpected, this was not _at all_ what he wanted - He let their holdall fall to the floor and turned around to close the door with a bit more care than was strictly necessary. Unsure how to proceed John remained standing close to the door whereas Sherlock clasped his hands behind his head and fixed his gaze on him.

All that could be heard was the faint but steady noise drifting up from the busy main street passing the hotel. Inside the room the silence was thickening as neither of them said a word, both of them merely staring at each other. John knew that he would inevitably lose such a staring contest and so he admitted defeat and was the first to glance away. He cleared his throat.

'Well?'

'Well what?'

'How are we …' John waved a hand vaguely indicating the room, the bed.

Sherlock raised a quizzical eyebrow and made a show to look around the room, taking in the bed, the wardrobe, the small writing desk and the sofa with a chair and a low coffee table, and - his eyebrows travelling just that bit higher - the bathroom with its transparent glass walls tucked away in a corner of the largish room.

'Interesting,' he said drily, trying his utmost to hide a smirk.

John followed his gaze and gasped - _How on earth! A see-through bathroom!_ \- He grimaced, and a smile, defying his inner turmoil, crept over his face. An angry, a dangerous smile. A smile which hid the fact that all he wanted right now was the earth to open up and to swallow him whole, or, alternatively, punch the receptionist on the nose. Instead he dropped his gaze, unable to face Sherlock. How was he supposed to deal with this? _Jesus_ \- How was he to go … to the loo? How was he supposed to take a shower in a bloody _see-through – slash - see everything_ bathroom?

'What is _this_?' he spat out eventually, pointing an accusing finger at the offending nothingness.

Sherlock sat up, leaning on his elbows, his face impassive. 'Problem?'

'I would say so, yes! I am not going to pee in there with you having a full view of my … you know … and what about taking a shower? It's all open!'

'Yes!' Sherlock conceded and lay back on the bed, unable now to wipe the smirk off his face. His eyes followed John who went to inspect the bathroom, stepping inside the cubicle, obviously looking for a curtain, however flimsy, shutters, anything to protect his modesty.

'John, rest assured, you're entirely safe. I'm neither going to ogle nor molest you.' It was intended as a casual remark, but it came out rather cutting.

John had finished his inspection and turned around. 'This is awful! Don't tell me you think this is acceptable?'

Sherlock merely shrugged.

'Bloody great!' John huffed. 'And where am I going to sleep?'

'I don't understand. You are going to sleep in the bed of course. With me.'

'I won't … I can't.'

'You _can't_?'

John turned away, trying to hide the blush creeping up his neck.

'I mean, I can't because I need a lot of space, I toss and turn. I would kick you … I think it's better I slept on the floor.' John nodded, once, twice, as if he needed all the confirmation he could get.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, but chose not to comment. A fact which was more disturbing for John than any snarky comment could have been.

'What?' He snapped.

'Nothing. Obviously it's impossible to share a bed if you toss and turn that much … I completely agree.'

'Right.'

John grimaced again and flexed his left hand a few times as if to get rid of pain, and suddenly Sherlock understood. With one glance he took in the distress plainly written all over John's face and clearly expressed in his hand and hunched shoulders and his heart clenched. This was not at all what he had wanted. It was painful to witness John's unease and so he looked away. Moving to the edge of the bed he spoke, more to himself, all the while avoiding John's gaze.

'I guess I should check on our suspect before we turn in.' Sherlock got up and slipped his shoes back on. 'Don't wait up for me John. Take the bed, by all means. I probably won't sleep much anyway.' Sherlock walked to the door, grabbing his clothes from the floor on the way. Without looking at John, he quickly got dressed again and opened the door. And without another word he was gone.

 

 

**ooo**

 

 

'Great! This is bloody great!'

John slumped down on the rumpled bed and sighed. 'Get a grip, Watson,' he muttered and tried to wipe the awkwardness from his face. He scoffed mirthlessly. Jesus, he'd really shown his cards, hadn't he? Had made quite a scene, unnecessarily and embarrassingly so. Because of a double room! He was a grown man for God's sakes! Admittedly, though, he was also a coward when it came to certain matters. Matters regarding a certain flatmate. That was his problem though, and nobody else's and besides, it was barely Sherlock's fault that all single rooms had been booked.

He exhaled and looked up, narrowing his eyes at the offending bathroom, huffing when the reality of this ingenious monstrosity hit him yet again: a see-through bathroom! Who had devised such monstrosity? Who on earth could believe that people actually would feel comfortable with this? With everything on display, no secrets anymore what with everyody else in the room being able to inspect all bits and pieces.

John got up and shrugged out of his jumper, and then quickly got rid of the rest of his clothes. Now that he was alone he wanted to make the best of Sherlock's absence and use this abomination of a comfy bathroom to the fullest. After arranging some fluffy towels on the floor next to the tub, he turned the water on. He found that the lights could be dimmed, which he rather liked, and to top it off he made sure to generously add the free bubble bath to the steaming hot water.

John was soon relaxing in the bath, forgetting his qualms and when he slowly moved his hands and legs he enjoyed the slight resistance of the water and the tender caress of the bubbly foam. The pleasant warmth of the perfumed water dissolved his worries and the awkwardness slowly seeped away, leaving John relaxed and somewhat expectant.

Maybe this was it, maybe this was the opportunity they both had been dancing around for weeks. The tension between them had almost been palpable, all those furtive glances and yearning looks, all those little touches and knowing smiles. Maybe things would come to a head tonight. Maybe this was the start of something new and exciting and overwhelming.

Maybe?

What he could impossibly anticipate was how Sherlock would react. Sherlock who did every single thing differently than the ordinary person. Maybe he had read him wrong, had read too much into too little? Or maybe he himself would chicken out?

John closed his eyes and sighed. The water was tender and hot and he relished the caress of the water on his body, and then it wasn't the water but Sherlock's fingers roaming over his skin and a shudder ran down his spine and heat pooled in his groin. John slightly arched his back and closed his eyes.

Maybe this was it.

 

 

**ooo**

 

 

Sherlock unlocked the door with his keycard, careful not to make any noise, and closed it carefully after he had slipped inside. The room was not entirely dark as John had left the light next to the bed on for him. It cast a golden glow and a warm hand gripped Sherlock's heart. How considerate of him, how caring.

He slowly undressed, his gaze never leaving John who was sleeping on his back, his face peaceful and relaxed, his mouth slightly open. A light snore made Sherlock smile. It was strange, wasn't it, what effect those domestic and ordinary sounds had on him. He, who had never in his life shared a substantial part of his time with another human being. Until John that was.

Sherlock stepped out of his trousers and let them fall to the floor. Only in his black briefs he opened the glass door to the bath cubicle. He pulled down his briefs and entered the shower. The hot water cascading down his chest and legs felt extraordinarily good, and not only did it wash away the dirt of the chase, but it also alleviated the disappointment that Jamie Fraser, the imposter they had been chasing all day had yet again managed to elude them. But Sherlock was not disheartened and confident to solve this case soon.

He turned around to catch a glimpse of John through the steamed-up glass walls and his thoughts drifted away from the case. Seeing John's outline made his skin tingle and a coolness prickled his back. He closed his eyes for a moment to be able to concentrate on the tasks at hand, showering, washing his hair and carefully towelling dry, almost doing so on autopilot. Those mundane tasks helped him keep the nervousness at bay, this restless buzzing that filled his mind and body whenver he was around John.

Naked he walked into bedroom, rummaging through their holdall for a fresh pair of pants, and when he had put them on and turned around he found John awake and unashamedly watching him. Unfazed, all nervousness gone, Sherlock gestured to the bed.

'May I?'

John did not reply, but lifted the duvet to invite him in. Sherlock smiled and climbed into the bed, careful to keep a distance to John, aware that he must be way out of his comfort zone already.

'Did you …' John cleared his throat. 'Did you find anything interesting?'

'Not much.

'Right.'

They fell silent, the unfamiliar bedroom, the unfamiliar closeness stunning them both. The short interlude of silence stretched, became longer, unnatural and awkward as neither of them wanted to be the first to say something wrong. Sherlock shuffled a bit on the bed, trying to get more comfortable. He needed to know.

'What made you change your mind?'

'I don't know. It just seemed right when you asked,' John shrugged, a gesture lost to the dim light in the room.

'I'm glad,' Sherlock softly said and turned on his side to face John, still careful not to invade his personal space more than necessary.

'Me too,' John conceded and nodded, and this time the gesture was not lost, and Sherlock's heart skipped a beat when John's beautiful profile sharpened in the light and his heart went out to him. He bit his lips, preventing himself from blurting out some remark which would inevitably destroy everything. Instead he made a silent vow: He would gladly give up being Mr Punchline for the next weeks if it only meant he was allowed to be close to John. He would stop being an obnoxious arsehole, give up the snarky comments – not forever, but at least for a while - let's be honest, he was in love, not an idiot and most of all he was realistic. But yes, he was prepared to be a better man, if it meant that he had more moments like this with John.

'You know what, Sherlock,' John softly said, his voice tender, but hesitant. 'I like being with you … close, like this.' He paused before he added. 'It feels right.'

Sherlock stilled and remained silent, unsure whether to speak and risk breaking the spell. John misinterpreted his silence and turned to him, searching his face for signs of rebuttal. But what he saw was undisguised tenderness, a raw and open need that he had never seen in Sherlock before.

On impulse John leaned forward and lightly kissed Sherlock's lips, softly, more a question than a statement. And like in those soppy Hollywood films the world actually stopped turning for a moment, only to start spinning again when the soft pressure of Sherlock's lips kissing John back provided the answer he had hoped for. It was a mere brushing of soft lips on soft lips, tender and sweet, and over all too soon. But Sherlock craved connection and so leaned his forehead against John's.

'Did you watch me?' he whispered. 'Just now, in the shower?'

John nodded and shifted a bit to get closer. 'I know I shouldn't have after all the bellyache I gave you, but yes, I did.' He kissed Sherlock again. 'You're beautiful,' he whispered against his lips, 'So beautiful.'

'So are you.' Sherlock replied without second thought.

And it was true. To Sherlock John was the most beautiful human being he had ever had the fortune to encounter. John was just as perfect when he was grumpy and angry as when he praised Sherlock and stood by him despite his social awkwardness. And for God's sakes, he was so handsome and Sherlock had repeatedly fought the urge to wrap him in his coat so that nobody else could see him, talk to him, or be interested in him. He wanted John all to himself. Now, and as long as John wanted him.

Sherlock sighed, happy and elated, and his guard slipped a bit. 'I'm glad all the hard work and the twenty quid paid off.'

'Hm?' John murmured sleepily and Sherlock immediately regretted the blurted out remark, cursed himself that he had not been thinking, and idiotically had broken his vow from only a minute ago. But be that as it may. He might have been idiotic and careless, but he was no coward.

'You know, the twenty quid I slipped the receptionist.'

'Hang on!' John opened his eyes and moved away a bit, the better to see Sherlock's face. 'What are you talking about?'

'See-through bathroom? Only this particular room left?' Sherlock smirked. 'Coincidences rarely happen, John. Finding the perfect hotel with the perfect room was quite a feat, especially on such short notice. Thank you, Mr Fraser for choosing Manchester, one of the few cities with fancy hotels featuring see-through bathrooms!'

'Oh, you bloody bastard!'

'Quite right,' Sherlock conceded and before John could elaborate, he pulled him close again and kissed him, passionately and demanding this time, leaving John no room for protest at all.

 

 

**[See-through bathrooms? Do such follies really exist? Indeed they do!](http://www.nytimes.com/2009/04/05/travel/05headsup.html?pagewanted=all&_r=1&) **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you like this fluffy chapter, set right at the beginning of their relationship (even if it is only yet another variation of how everything started :)
> 
> Thank you very much for your positive feedback, please keep it up!
> 
> JJ xx


	4. Away on a case - Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I thought it would be nice to see what the boys are up to, at night, in their hotel room, with the strange see-through bathroom ... So, here it is: A little sequel.
> 
> Enjoy reading

The rain was tapping softly against the window pane. It was a steady, a soothing rhythm, and Sherlock turned his head towards it. His eyelids fluttered nervously and he exhaled slowly, trying to master the flood of sensations washing over him. Something unknown, but warm and heavy was blooming inside his chest, and he allowed it to take residence there. He hoped it would help fill the void inside him, a void he had been painfully aware of since John had entered his life and had made him more and more aware of his shortcomings.

A delicate flick of tongue and Sherlock sharply sucked in his breath, both hands fisting the sheets when he arched his back, letting his legs fall open even wider. His hips moved on their own accord it seemed, slowly, sensually, obeying another one's rhythm, obeying John.

Again the sound of the rain and the wind, which was forcefully picking up speed and whipping the droplets against the cold glass, pierced the fog of arousal and sensation. He became aware of his own moans and gasps and little grunts, of the heat radiating off his body. His hands sought John's hair, twisting his fingers through the soft strands, pushing and pulling, undecided, desperately wishing him to stay where he was and longing for those lips on his own at the same time.

Heat, desire, John's touches, his kisses, his hands and lips all over him. It was so much, so much, and all at once - so much data he would have to defragment and file away later. And it was so much more than he could ever have hoped for. A shiver ran over Sherlock's skin and he arched his back even more, offering himself to John.

John looked up, registering every tiny reaction, every new expression on Sherlock's face, and what he saw made him intensify his touch. His hands, locked around Sherlock's bony hips, loosened their grip and his fingers trailed over the swell of his backside, firmly, reverently, moving on, travelling over his hips, his abdomen and then up and down the inside of his thighs. His lips, wrapped around Sherlock, were sucking, kissing and licking, eliciting the most wonderful reactions. His hands, his mouth and lips and tongue were taking Sherlock apart, shattering him to pieces only to pick them up, one by one, and to put him back together lovingly and with infinite care.

'John,' Sherlock gasped and his fingers relinquished all gentleness when he edged closer to losing control, his touch rougher and much more demanding. John obeyed his unspoken wish and sped up his movement, feeling Sherlock's desire mounting. Watching Sherlock as he came undone underneath his touch was overwhelming and John moved against the mattress, rutting, the soft linen providing enough friction for him in his overexcited state, just enough.

His eyes never left Sherlock's face, taking in the flushed cheeks and the sheen of sweat on his forehead, the open mouth, the helpless panting and the tip of his tongue against his teeth, the almost incomprehensible words spilling from his mouth. His hands moved to Sherlock's groin, and soon the gasps, the words and movements were becoming less coherent, more erratic, as his arousal was mounting more and more and finally cresting with a muffled cry.

 

 

**ooo**

 

 

John rested his head on Sherlock's thigh, breathing in the heady scent of their lovemaking. Sherlock's chest was flushed and heaving in the aftermath of his orgasm. He looked utterly spent, his legs splayed, his arms lying limply at his side and his head turned sideways. With his eyes closed and mouth slightly open he looked young and delicious and sinful.

Slowly breathing through his mouth John listened to the blood rushing through his veins and whooshing in his ears, feeling the pure life pulsating within him. He felt it entering his heart, claiming its rightful place where for such a long time there had been nothing, nothing at all. Joy sometimes can be close to pain and John felt that the pure happiness of this moment had a raw edge to it, but one that he welcomed, one that he could cherish. Slowly his heart calmed down and his body followed suit, adapting to the peacefulness of this moment.

For a while nothing else than the sound of their breathing and the faint sounds of the night in a foreign city filled the room, and with the silence a warm glow settled over John, slowly seeping into every fibre of his being. Startled he realised that right now he was as close to happiness as probably never before.

'Can you hear the rain?' Sherlock softly asked, piercing the silence. 'And the wind?'

'Yes.'

'I never liked storms,' Sherlock confided. He was still lying motionless, and his voice, drifting through the almost darkness of the room, was strangely unreal. 'Mycroft used to tell me it was the east wind coming - A storm - there to pluck the unworthy of the earth. Which was usually me.'

John chuckled and caressed Sherlock's thigh, tracing little circles with his fingers.

'I always wondered what kind of brother Mycroft was for you.' John said and placed a kiss on the smooth skin. 'Don't take this the wrong way, but I think he must have been a rubbish big brother.'

John sat up, loath to break the peaceful mood of the moment, and grabbed a box of tissues from the night table to wipe his mouth and then both of them roughly clean.

'Mostly,' Sherlock conceded and gave John a sweet and lazy smile. 'But even he had his good moments.'

'Hard to believe.'

'Hm,' Sherlock grunted, unwilling to pursue this train of thought.

John grabbed the duvet which had become a tangled mass at the foot of the bed and draped it over both of them before he carefully placed his head on Sherlock's chest, wishing for the bliss of the past half hour to linger.

'Your heart … it's still racing.'

'It's not used to such exertion anymore.'

'Oh, it will get the hang of it soon.'

'Clearly.

John brushed his cheek over Sherlock's hot skin, the sparse dark chest hair tickling his cheeks. It had been a while for John to share such intimacy and he was sure the same could be said for Sherlock. Of course, he had never asked, but he was convinced that Sherlock must have experienced sex and intimacy before, after all he was a man in his thirties.

And what if he hadn't?

Well, what was it to John? - Nothing, it was irrelevant.

John draped his body over Sherlock, snuggling even closer. Strangely, in past relationships he had never been a cuddler, had always fled the emotionally stifling stickiness of after-sex cuddles, the hollowness that followed a high, the inevitable questions, the dissection and destruction of what might have been otherwise an enjoyable moment.

'Your'e broooooding,' Sherlock drawled, mocking him. 'Why?'

'I'm just happy, that's all.' John shrugged, surprising himself, spilling the beans without necessity, his words and actions heroically contradicting his morose thoughts without a trace of hesitation. He huffed and then craned his head to look at Sherlock. 'Are you?'

'Happiness is a concept purely based on past experiences, childhood memories, conventions and ideals society deems appropriate and desirable.'

'Right,' John grinned, but he was not put off so easily. 'But are you happy?'

'Yes,' Sherlock kissed him on the tip of his nose. 'Yes, I am actually.'

John straightened his back to kiss him properly, exploring the plush lips and the mouth, and he felt desire stirring yet again.

' _Jesus_ , Sherlock,' He chuckled against his lips, moving a bit to hide his arousal. 'It seems my body is ready to go again…'

'Mm,' Sherlock sounded sceptical. 'Quite amazing for a man your age.'

'Oi! Watch it!'

'Don't take it like that.' Sherlock weaved his fingers through John's hair and John found that he could take the snarky remark in exchange for this tender gesture. 'The average refractory period for a man your age is thirty-eight minutes. So you're doing well.' John grunted in reply and closed his eyes, enjoying the sensation of those deft fingers carding through his hair. 'Actually, I'm flattered that your body reacts like that to me, but maybe we should take a bath first. Exploit the luxuries of this extraordinary bathroom?'

'I'd like that.'

John pecked Sherlock's chest and with a grunt he sat up, covering his midsection with the duvet. Ruffling his hand through his hair as if following the trail Sherlock's fingers had left, he looked back over his shoulder and saw a slow smile spreading over Sherlock's face, a real, a warm smile. Sherlock lifted his hand and ran his fingers lightly down John's back, making him shiver and straighten under the tender touch.

John answered his smile and narrowed his eyes. How changed Sherlock looked. There was none of his usual haughty arrogance left, none of his detachment. He was relaxed, his limbs loose and his movements fluid. His skin, usually as pale as moonlight, was flushed, mottled and pinkish in places, his dark curls dishevelled and wild, but the one thing which made him more beautiful than ever was the open and vulnerable expression on his face.

I love him, John thought and quickly glanced away. God help me, I love him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was it, the little sequel to the see-through bathroom chapter. I really hope you liked it!
> 
> I want to thank you for the fantastic feedback those ficlets have been getting so far. You really, really made/make my day :)
> 
> There's more to come … See you soon!
> 
> JJ xx


	5. A Bedroom of Horrors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know I hinted at sadness for this chapter, but before we cross that bridge have a bit more fluff …
> 
> Enjoy reading!

The unfortunate incident at the 'Badger Head Inn' in Exeter could not have not been foreseen.

Obviously Sherlock blamed John who, admittedly, had been a trifle inattentive and therefore let the opportunity slip to bring this case to a quick completion. John, on the other hand, was convinced that it had been entirely Sherlock's fault, after all he had been busy _elsewhere_ , where exactly he had not yet divulged, when John had needed him.

So Sherlock was silent and brooding, faraway in his thoughts, possibly trying to think of alternatives to catch the blackmailer they had hoped to stop this afternoon. If his current state of mind was anything to go by this alternative very likely included John acting as bait. John shuddered at the thought, but then he almost imperceptibly shook his head no, the man they were after had seen them together at the inn today, so this was out of the question.

John turned his attention away from Sherlock, whose prolonged silence troubled him only slightly. His manners prevailed and therefore he tried to concentrate on the things at hand, their client. Well, at least one of them should, John thought, slightly irritated now, and cleared his throat. Time to fully focus on the conversation again.

They were in the midst of a light supper Mrs Corman, their client, had graciously and generously prepared at her home. They were in the living room, seated around a low table laden with plates of sandwiches, little cakes and bowls of soup. John was not very hungry, but polite enough to eat, whereas Sherlock had outright declined any food.

Last Monday the three of them had met for the first time when Mrs Corman had come to Baker Street, her last resort, as she had confided fairly quickly. A sobbing mess she had been, desperate because nobody, including the police whom she declared useless, had been able to help her thus far, and so the famous London detective Sherlock Holmes was her last and only remaining hope.

The case she had presented had been interesting and Sherlock immediately intrigued by it. Five weeks ago Mrs Corman had been contacted and then increasingly pressured by a blackmailer threatening to expose her dead husband's dirty secrets. She tearfully assured that, in the worst case, this exposure could result in her losing everything she owned: A nice cottage just outside Exeter and a flourishing tearoom in town. As usual the police had been frightfully incompetent as she had put it, and Sherlock, who especially abhorred this species of criminals, frankly loathed their habit of exploiting other people's secrets, had been sympathetic and had gracefully accepted. Thus it had been arranged that Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson would come to Exeter to confront and stop Mrs Corman's tormentor.

Well, that had been the plan at least, a plan which had been willfully destroyed by John, if you asked Sherlock and made impossible by Sherlock, if you leaned towards John's side. Whatever side you were inclined to choose, the result was the same: It resulted in them having to stay for another day - and night.

'I _must_ insist you take the spare room!'

'That's very generous of you, Mrs Corman, but we …'

'No _but_ , Dr Watson! I'be damned if I let you gentlemen spend good money on a cold and dirty hotel room when I can offer you the comfort of my spare room.' She leaned forward confidentially. 'You never know what might happen in a hotel! Dr Watson, do you have any idea what scoundrels these hotel managers are? I know Exeter, have lived here all my life and I could tell you a tale or two!'

'I'm sure we'll …'

'No, no, _no_! You will be my guests. It's the least I can do and that's my last word! The spare room is on the first floor, ensuite, so you'll be very private.' She leaned back a bit and after an assessing look she added. 'I take it you do need only the _one_ bedroom?'

John cleared his throat. He put down the sandwich he had been holding and glanced at Sherlock. He was sitting right next to him, on a low chair, upholstered in the most hideous floral pattern in colourful chintz. Sherlock looked like an elegant painting against a flowery background, the way he was sitting there, completely still, his legs delicately crossed at the ankles and his long fingers steepled beneath his chin. He was staring into the crackling fire, going at full blast and giving the living room with its low ceiling an almost stifling atmosphere. Again John cleared his throat to rouse Sherlock from his thoughts, but Mrs Corman butted in.

'Not that I mind, Dr Watson. Not at all! But if you'd prefer there's a small room behind the scullery. Used to be the maid's room, not that I have one now. Awfully hard to find a decent help, you know.' She smiled at John, aiming for sympathy. 'Anyway, it's a nice little room, Dr Watson. No private bathroom for this one though, I'm afraid.'

John looked back at her and answered her smile, longing to put an end to this conversation. 'It's fine, Mrs Corman. We only need the one room. As long as there is a large enough bed …' John broke off and glanced away. He felt a heat rising in his face which had nothing to do with the high temperature in the crammed and over-decorated living room. Ignoring his slight embarrassment he glanced back at the old lady and smiled.

'Splendid!' Mrs Corman clasped her hands together and got up. 'Do help yourselves to more soup and sandwiches. I'll just pop upstairs and prepare your room!'

 

 

**ooo**

 

 

'I can _not_ stay here!'

'We've been through this. Three times! I don't know what to say anymore to be honest.'

'Look at that one over there. It's horrid, it's creepy. Look, I've got goosebumps all over my body!'

John sighed and dutifully looked at Sherlock who was sitting up in bed, wide awake and leaning against the wooden headboard. Right enough, his bare arms were covered in gooseflesh. John's eyes trailed along the lovely pale skin and then followed the direction Sherlock's accusing finger was pointing.

'I agree. It's not exactly pretty.'

'That must be the understatement of the century. It is nightmarish, like a medieval gargoyle. Just look at her eyes.'

'Yes, I can see why she is not aesthetically pleasing, but I would very much like to turn off the lights now and go to sleep.'

'Turn off the lights?'

'Hm.'

'John, we cannot turn off the lights. I strictly refuse! I can't sleep in this room with those horrific dolls around me. They are disquieting.'

'That's why I'd suggest sleeping in darkness. You'll find that the ensuing blackness quite handily shrouds things we don't want to see.'

'Sarcasm, John? Now? Can't you see that I am disturbed by this array of terrifying ugliness?'

John sighed and with a few angry shoves against his pillow he sat up, next to Sherlock.

'I grant you that they are horrific and I have never seen anything like them before. Not even in my grand aunt's house and she was an avid collector of stuffed animals. You should have seen her collection of owls. It was awe-inspiring, to say the least.'

'I bet it couldn't compare to those atrocities.' Sherlock drew up his legs and hugged them close to his chest. He placed his chin on his knees and glanced sideways at John. He looked like a petulant seven-year old and he sounded like one as well. John marveled at the fact that this man, now resembling an annoyed little boy, was the same person who had bewitched Mrs Corman with his suave poise and cool deductions. John chuckled when he thought back to the way she had fussed over them both, but especially over Sherlock who had grown quieter and quieter once she had shown them their bedroom.

'Not quite. I have to admit that those porcelain dolls really do take the biscuit.'

'How many do you think there are?'

John tilted his head to the side and looked around the room. Underneath the window, on top of the chest of drawers he counted ten porcelain dolls of various sizes. The biggest was a fairly plump baby doll, dressed in a white lacy dress, complete with bonnet. She was staring at John with big, blue and very dead eyes and John quickly averted his gaze.

'Thirty-nine dolls, John,' Sherlock interrupted his endeavour impatiently. 'Ten on the chest of drawers, fifteen on the two shelves, eight on the two wicker chairs and the remaining six scattered individually on the night tables, the top of the wardrobe, next to the door and three in the bathroom.'

Sherlock had spoken quickly, through gritted teeth and John turned towards him. Sherlock had started to jiggle his legs nervously and because of his posture his whole body began to tremble.

'Shh,' John soothed and wrapped his arm around Sherlock, who thankfully slumped against John's warm and sturdy body, still nervously trembling. 'Why don't you tell me about them?'

'Tell? What?' Sherlock seemed perplexed.

'Whatever you can. Deduce them for me.'

Sherlock sat up and looked at John. His face was impassive first, and then he slowly frowned. 'You mean?'

'Yes.'

Sherlock nodded and then scanned the room, letting his eyes slowly travel over the dolls. John noticed how he slightly flinched once or twice, but then he seemed to have found one which he deemed worthy to deduce. He snuggled against John's chest and began to speak, his low baritone pleasantly rumbling.

'Let's start with the doll in the frilly lilac silk dress, shall we? Antique, Georgian, a present from Mrs Corman's late husband. He bought it in London as a kind of reparation because he had been with a mistress. Possibly one of the secrets Mrs Fisher would rather keep hidden. She does not like this doll, see how she pushed it behind the others? It reminds her of sad hours, of hours waiting for her infidel husband, secretly wishing the plague upon him, but gracefully accepting the token of his shame when he came back to her.'

'That's … amazing! How can you...?'

Sherlock smiled against John's bare chest and kissed him. 'I observe, John. And I listen. Mrs Corman has talked about her husband's infidelity at great length today. About his little adventures, not here in Exeter, but preferably in London where the chance to meet an acquaintance would have been much smaller, about his lifelong addiction to burlesque dancers. Judging by the rest of the cottage it's easy to see why Mr Corman would think those dolls would be right up his wife's street. That she put them in the spare room, out of sight, only corroborates the assumption that these were guilty gifts from her husband. She accepted them, though she hated them and so, gradually, she assembled this creepy cabinet of horrors in the guest room.'

'That's brilliant, Sherlock.' John kissed the top of Sherlock's head, the smell of the day, the train, the inn, Mrs Corman's living room, still clinging to his hair. He cupped his chin and tilted Sherlock's face upwards. Soft lips met soft lips and Sherlock closed his eyes, savouring the moment.

'Hmm,' he hummed and kissed John backed, slowly, tenderly, taking his time. 'You know,' he murmured between lazy kisses. 'There's only one way to prevent me from having nightmares in this room.'

'Oh? What's that?'

'Distract me, John,' Sherlock mumbled, his eyelids fluttering closed again. 'Make slow and lazy love to me, take me apart, wear me out, so much so that my brain will have no capacity left to contemplate the horrors of those dolls.'

A shudder went down John's spine. Sherlock's low voice, uttering this plea - or was it a command? - was mesmerising. John slowly kissed a trail from Sherlock's forehead to the corners of his lips. 'I think I am capable of that,' he whispered.

'Good,' Sherlock opened his eyes and to John they seemed like a vortex, irresistibly drawing him closer, drawing him in, inviting him to drown. 'That's very good.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much, eventhorizon451, for this lovely prompt. My muse was a bit dormant these past days, and so I asked for prompts and ideas on my tumblr. This is one of them, and eventually I will write a chapter for most of the prompts (or maybe even for all as they were so lovely). Thank you very much!
> 
> Thank you for reading and for all the wonderful feedback for this fic. Please keep it up!
> 
> JJ xx


	6. A Sad Memory

John sharply sucked in his breath. He recoiled as if he had been slapped, the object he had been holding slipping from his fingers and tumbling to the floor. His eyes fluttered closed when the wave of nausea hit him, broke and with agonising and disgusting accuracy licked at his skin before washing over him. Stumbling backwards his legs hit the bed and he sank to the floor in an untidy heap.

'Jesus -' he muttered. Covering his eyes, shielding them, John listened to his wildly hammering heart with something akin to awe. Exhaustion gripped him and he had no choice but to let it reign, his head drooping, his chin almost touching his chest, before he had regained enough strength to bring his knees up and hug them tightly, unconsciously making himself smaller, fairly curling into himself. Gently he started rocking, to and fro, slowly, ever so slowly, guiding himself towards a calmer state.

'Jesus,' he repeated, his voice weak, the words almost inaudible, as his heart resumed a slower pace. He felt drained and tired, and uncurling he let his legs glide out in front of him, his arms fall loosely to the side and his head tilt backwards, leaning against the foot of the bed.

Slowly he in- and exhaled a few times, careful to follow the relaxation techniques he knew by heart, sadly enough. In the aftermath of Sherlock's death these techniques had more often than not been the only thing that had prevented him from simply getting drunk to forget his bottomless grief, had prevented him from literally drowning his sorrow.

In and out, in and out, in and out - slowly, deliberately, steadily - and then John opened his eyes again to bravely confront what had caused this attack. Instinctively he knew that he could not do so without preparation or a detour of some kind, and so he tried to anchor his mind to something positive first. Taking a deep breath he let his eyes slowly travel from the floor up to the window along the wall and then to the top of the chest of drawers.

He weakly smiled when he took in the array of frames on top of the chest of drawers. He knew there were six of them, but from his vantage point on the floor he could only see three. One that showed a smugly smiling Sherlock in his armour, his detective outfit, complete with coat and the 'earhat', as he had arrogantly dubbed it, although they both knew that he secretly liked it. And a bit to the right there was a snapshot which showed Sherlock relaxed and with the hint of a suntan, tiny freckles gracing the bridge of his nose and his cheeks, not that John could see them from that distance, but he knew they were there. Next to this, in a modest silver frame, was a memento of John's army days, a portrait of John in his unform, a shot Sherlock particularly loved and had rescued from a box in John's wardrobe. John could not help but smile as the memories connected with the pictures were all happy and positive ones, and so he felt somewhat restored if not entirely ready. Slowly he bent forward to pick up the object that had so profoundly shocked him minutes ago.

John softly chuckled, but it was a mirthless sound, more expressing his bewilderment about his reaction to what was an inconspicuous object really than actual enjoyment. He cleared his throat and focused on what he was holding in his hands. It was blue, with a pattern of darker and slightly lighter stripes, and it was soft, very soft. But when John's fingers moved on he found patches of an entirely different consistence, stiff, hardened in places where congealed blood - Sherlock's blood - had dried.

Shakily inhaling he forced himself not to snatch his fingers away - For John was for the very first time touching the scarf Sherlock had worn the day he had jumped off the roof of St. Bart's.

He was touching the scarf the hospital staff had been more than reluctant to hand over to John after he had begged them, had screamed, had humiliated himself. They had drawn the line at the coat, though. They had refused to give it to him, had said it was beyond repair, not that he would have cared one tiny bit. No, they had wanted to spare him, scuttling around him, exuding their well-meant, but false consideration and he had hated them for it. And so he had railed and begged and ranted until they had at least given him the scarf - _his_ scarf - wrapped in a white hospital sheet and stuffed into a bag.

It had taken weeks and weeks before he had been able to unwrap it, only to stuff it in a box, and then the box somewhere in the back of a wardrobe or a chest of drawers, he could not remember where exactly. Memories surfaced now, though, pale, but distinct memories, how he had sometimes caressed this box, had almost opened it, but then had stuffed it somewhere where he would not see it, would not accidently stumble across it. Cowardly behaviour, really. Nevertheless he had been acutely aware of its existence for a very long while, but had never been quite ready to actually take the scarf out and touch it. And gradually he had forgotten that it was there - Until now.

Why he had taken that box out today of all days, without even remembering what it contained, was a mystery to John. Why he had opened it and touched the scarf, inexplicable. But now that he had crossed that boundary there was no way back it seemed.

Tenderly he moved his fingers over the scarf, marvelling at the colour and the texture, how different it felt to what he remembered, how soft it was and how strange the dark, dried blood felt. Tears prickled behind his eyes and he choked back a sob. An urge to give in to the sadness overcame him, one he had not felt for a while and he simply let go, let the tears roll down his cheeks, pressing the scarf against his mouth to stifle the sobs.

 

 

**ooo**

 

 

'John?'

A door clapped, soon followed by the steps of someone quickly crossing the kitchen and then the bedroom door was opened.

'John?'

'What's wrong, John? What happened?'

John looked up and more tears came, one after the other, rolling down his cheeks. Sherlock scanned the room and taking in the scarf in John's hands and his tear-stained face, he quickly closed the bedroom door and lowered himself onto the floor next to him.

'John,' he whispered and wrapped his arms around him, cradling him in his arms. 'Why did you do that?'

'I don't know,' John said, his voice muffled with tears. 'I was cleaning out the drawers, getting the stuff ready for Oxfam, you know and I just ...' he motioned to the box, to the scarf in his hands. 'I never ...' he broke off and drew a shaky breath. 'I had never looked at it. Not until today.'

'I see,' Sherlock kissed the top of John's head and sat down next to him, leaning against the foot of the bed. 'I see,' he repeated, his voice shaky, and John looked at him. Despite his use of the universal formula of conveying understanding Sherlock seemed at a loss. John blinked away his tears and waited.

'I'm sorry.' Sherlock's voice was flat when he eventually spoke, the effort not to cry so evident that John bit his lips. 'I'm sorry ... so very sorry, John.'

'I know.'

Sherlock grabbed John's hand and intertwined their fingers. A weak smile danced across his face and John answered it, willing it to grow bolder, willing it to stay, for the sake of both of them. John had long realised what Sherlock's jump and the aftermath had meant for both of them. Had realised that both of them had suffered and that both of them had changed. Sherlock looked at John and nodded and lifting John's hand to his lips he gently kissed his palm.

'Let me show you something.' Sherlock did not let go of John's hand which made the following manoeuvre a trifle awkward, but he managed to retrieve his purse from his suit jacket nonetheless. He opened it and took out a small, round and dark object. He held it up, rolling it between thumb and index finger.

'A button,' John said, frowning.

'Your button.'

'What?'

'I took it from your black jacket when we were in the lab - that afternoon. I cut it off and kept it with me ever since. It was all I could take from you, a memento.'

'I never noticed ... but then I wouldn't have, would I?' John's voice grew agitated again. 'I was busy just trying to keep functioning. Coming back here bloody killed me, did I tell you that? All your books, your chair, our bed, your clothes ...' John's voice broke again and Sherlock bit his lips.

'Sorry, John,' Sherlock delivered this apology as he had done so many times before in the past weeks since his return. 'Please believe me, I'm sorry for all the grief that I caused you.' He whispered those words, always those words, as if he needed to make his remorse clear once more, and John heard it, but wasn't ready yet to tell him it was enough. Instead he cleared his throat, trying to get rid of the sadness.

'Can you believe that I'd completely forgotten that I had this box with your scarf...' John's voice trailed off and his fingers absent-mindedly stroked the soft fabric again.

'Clearly. It's a perfectly normal reaction. You needed to forget, so your brain repressed this information. This explains why you could stumble upon it today without recognising it.'

'Thanks,' John said with a scoff. 'I know that much myself.'

'Don't be like that, John. I merey clarified.'

'I know,' John said tiredly, leaning aganist Sherlock. 'I know.' His glance fell on the button which Sherlock was still holding between thumb and index finger.

'Why a button?'

'Hm?'

'Why did you take one of my buttons and not a photo or a shirt or... I don't know.'

'I took a button because it was small enough to take everywhere with me, meaningful enough to connect me to you and not significant enough for any of my opponents to confiscate it. It was my anchor, my lifeline, it kept me sane.' Sherlock said and scoffed. After a moment he repeated, much quieter. 'It kept me sane.'

'I don't know what to say.'

Sherlock shrugged, 'Sentiment.' John huffed when he heard the familiar word, always used to conveninetly cover Sherlock's unwillingness to delve into his own emotions, but this time he was not finished yet. 'Love, John.'

John looked at him then and their eyes locked for a moment.

'Yes.' John said and turned their hands to place a kiss on the back of Sherlock's hand. 'Love, Sherlock.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much, MapleLeafCameo, for this wonderful prompt :)
> 
> Sorry for the delay, but real life was quite demanding! Thank you for all your support, my lovelies. I really appreciate you taking the time to read these ficlets and I absolutely love your feedback :)
> 
> JJ xx
> 
> P.S.: I might continue the Bedroom of Horrors chapter and write about John's attempt to distract Sherlock... but only if anyone's interested? :)


	7. A Bedroom of Horrors - Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My dear WitchRavenFox - This is a little birthday present for you, my friend.  
> I hope you enjoy it :)

John exhaled and his body slowed down - the once pronounced and determined movements became less so, slower, slow, and then infinitely slow until his body stilled completely. Time seemed to grind to a halt and the air in the room grew heavy with want and restraint. The muscles in the back of his thighs, backside and lower back tensed, taut like bowstrings with the effort of keeping still. He felt them trembling.

Sherlock opened his eyes a fraction, slits of silvery blue and white and then his lips parted and his tongue slipped out, wetting his lips, moving from one corner of his mouth to the other. It was a simple but feral gesture, and all the more enticing and obscene for it. He did not say a word, but lifted his hips, rolled them, attempting to make John move once more.

John shook his head and bent down to kiss Sherlock's chest, a fine sheen of sweat coating the pale skin. Kiss after kiss after kiss and when John felt Sherlock growing more restless he covered his mouth with one hand to stifle any possible protest. This was John's gig, and he was the one to set the pace. Sherlock's eyes widened and a growl started to build deep inside his chest, a low rumble, waiting to break free.

'Shh,' John reprimanded him, continuing to kiss his way up his chest, along the slender neck to his enticing lips. Tentatively he lifted his hand, ready to cover Sherlock's mouth immediately should he protest. John lifted one eyebrow questioningly and waited for Sherlock to nod his consent.

'Good,' John whispered before he kissed Sherlock's lips, his body still not resuming any pronounced movement, still remaining motionless. Their kisses grew heated quickly, passionate, fuelled by desire and a great amount of impatience on Sherlock's part and freed from the restraint of John's hand he moaned unashamedly into his mouth, pouring all his want into it. Despite having been told not to, he moved, wrapping his long legs around John and drawing him closer, deeper inside himself. John gasped and broke off the kiss.

'Don't!' John warned and closed his eyes, he needed to calm down or he would give in to the urge to continue those delicious motions, oh yes, he would. Instead he used his hands to pin Sherlock's hands down either side of his head and set out to make up for this with kisses and bites and licks.

'More...' Sherlock growled into his mouth. 'More!'

'Don't speak!' John hissed and closed his mouth with more kisses robbing Sherlock of any chance to complain. In frustration he arched his eyebrows and John almost laughed, but then he gave in and started moving, slowly, ever so slowly. When he felt Sherlock's impatience bubble up incontrollably once more, he took mercy and moved faster and more determined, thrusting deeper and Sherlock's mouth fell open in a perfect rund O and he arched his back in the most arousing way. John pressed his lips on Sherlock's, incapable of anything else than messy kisses now. He kept Sherlock's hands pinned to either side of his head and then his thrusts became faster and faster until he finished with a muffled cry.

Panting John let his head sink onto Sherlock's chest, welcomed by a wildly hammering heart. Only a moment of respite, though, as he felt that he had tested Sherlock's patience enough for one night, and then he sneaked a hand between them and made sure that Sherlock followed.

 

 

**ooo**

 

 

Silence - gentle, velvety silence - full of nothing, full of everything. It was blissful and it was theirs and it was this silence which invariably followed their lovemaking. Silence made of equal parts satisfaction and happiness, exhaustion and tiredness, loss and gain.

John relished the fact that they could be this silent together, and he knew that Sherlock, who loved to talk and to disagree and to dissect, was not averse to this tiny ritual either. Experiencing Sherlock in such a mood was as delicious as it was exclusive to John.

Fingers slowly extricating from warm, slender fingers, and then delicately turning onto his back, John let his gaze travel over the dim outlines of Mrs Corman's spare room filled to the brim with her porcelain dolls. Obviously, he could see what Sherlock disliked about them, even to him, who was rather indifferent to the intricacies of interior design, they were atrocious. John closed his eyes, trying to prolong this beautiful moment, but then he started fidgeting and with a sigh he reluctantly got up to go to the bathroom, a necessary, but not welcomed interruption of their silent bliss.

John made sure to be quick and when he washed his hands, raising his head to glance into the mirror, he noticed the smug expression on his face. Grinning he saluted his reflection. He dried his hands and turned off the light and then quickly slipped back into the bed, snuggling up to Sherlock, warm and still silent Sherlock.

'John,' Sherlock mumbled eventually, his eyes closed and his face relaxed. He sounded worn-out and satisfied and John mentally slapped himself on the back once more for being the one responsible for this state.

'Hm?'

'I almost managed to forget where we were when you made love to me.'

John adjusted his position on the bed, his burning muscles reminding him of the exertion of barely twenty minutes ago. ' _Almos_ t you say?'

'Yes.'

'Only almost?'

'Obviously.'

'It's not obvious to me! Why only almost?' John's voice took on a mocking tone. 'Wasn't I good enough?'

'Don't be silly, John. You were quite fantastic and my orgasm was very pleasant, and the moments of denial were a nice touch indeed.'

'But?'

'But when I opened my eyes again, they were still there!' Sherlock scoffed and when he spoke again he almost growled. 'Quite impossible to ignore the horrors of _those_ dolls.'

'Well, they did not dissolve into thin air in the meantime. A brilliant mind like yours should have been aware of that. To be honest, I was taking your demand to distract you and to make you forget those dolls not quite in the literal sense. Well, at least not entirely.'

'Oh, well, you're right.' Sherlock conceded rather gracefully. 'I was metaphorically speaking of course. I just thought that if there was anybody on earth who had the power to make this happen then it would be you.'

John blinked, 'Seriously Sherlock, that's the most romantic thing that's ever been said to me!'

'Really?' Sherlock's face lit up with one of his lopsided smile and he looked very content. 'That's ... good, I suppose!'

'It is, it definitly is. You are a romantic git...' John chuckled, and the content silence returned, but then he could not help but yawn mightily. 'Let's get some sleep. I'm absolutely knackered.'

'Right.'

John snuggled up to Sherlock's chest, listening to his heartbeat again - the calm, steady and strong dadumm, dadumm, dadumm - and he was happy.

He was tired, yes, knackered, as he had said and in this state between wakefulness and sleep his mind decided to dwell on something truly happy: Sherlock and the fact that he was his. These last days, weeks and months, these first months of their relationship had been outstanding indeed. Not that so much had changed in their compartment towards each other, apart from the sex of course, but he would not have expected how freeing it was to live openly what had gripped him the moment he had met Sherlock Holmes.

Love flooded John, filling him from head to toe, a pleasant prickling sensation which made him tingly all over. John's fingers lightly caressed Sherlock's skin and then his grip tightened and he gently kissed the pale, warm skin.

'I love you too, you know.'

'I know, Sherlock. Oh God, I know.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, a short, but fluffy sequel ... I hope you liked reading it!
> 
> Thank you for all your lovely feedback, and see you soon!
> 
> JJ xx


	8. Soaking Wet

'Take my coat.'

John looked up at Sherlock who was hovering close, his coat in his hands, held out to him. An offering.

'Thanks,' John nodded and quickly slipped out of his soaked jacket and into the warm and heavy woollen Great Coat. Despite the torrential rain they had run through to reach this shelter, the coat's woollen outside was barely wet and the lining was still holding some residue warmth from Sherlock's body.

'What about you?' John pressed out between chattering teeth. He stopped talking, not wanting to waste energy and tried to control the symptoms of his freezing body. He was wet to the skin as his cotton jacket and blue jeans had been a rather pitiful shell, soaking wet now, the trousers clinging to his legs and his jacket lying useless somewhere on the bale of straw next to him.

'I'm fine.' Sherlock answered confidently and from what John could see with the dim light falling in through the open barn door, he looked fairly dry. Obviously his coat had protected him well from the downpour which had surprised them. But the way he hugged his arms around himself spoke of something else entirely and John saw that he was shivering.

'You're not. You're shivering. Why did you give me your coat when you're cold yourself?'

Sherlock scoffed and turned away from John. He walked to the barn door and peered outside. 'It's still pelting down for God's sakes!' He remained where he was and leaning against the doorpost he peered into the rapidly falling night. As if he had no worry in the world, he crossed his feet at the ankles nonchalantly. 'I guess, we'll just have to wait until it clears.'

'And if it doesn't?'

'Then we'll have to stay here, obviously.' Sherlock spoke without looking at John, and the tension in his lean back told John that he was trying hard to keep from shivering. John snuffled and wrapped the coat around him. A faint whiff of smoke and the scent of wet wool wafted towards him. He closed his eyes and concentrated on getting warm again. He knew very well that it would be best to take off his wet shoes and socks at least and rub his feet dry with the straw, but he was loath to move and decided to give it another five minutes or so.

 _God_ , he was so sleepy after this hike through the bloody countryside - stupidly following a trail long gone cold if you asked John. Which Sherlock of course had not, thank you very much. John growled, as much in response to this not very friendly thought as a comment on their current situation.

'You probably should take off your wet trousers. And socks, and shoes,' Sherlock remarked and looked over his shoulder.

'I know,' John said, but made no move to do so.

'Dry your feet, with the straw.'

'Yes, yes, I am aware of that,' John snapped.

Again Sherlock said nothing and continued staring at the curtain of falling rain outside the barn.

'Could you please close the door, it's very cold,' John muttered and Sherlock turned to look at him, to peer at him attentively, before he closed the door, robbing the barn of yet another source of light, however dim.

'You really should get out of those wet clothes.'

'As a matter of fact so should you.' John said petulantly.

'Hm,' Sherlock turned his back on John, peering through the cracks in the wooden boards as if he wanted to stop the pouring rain by the force of his steely gaze. 'I really don't see why you are so stubborn, John. You are a doctor, you should be more sensible.'

'I _am_ sensible, thank you very much,' John felt a pink anger rise in his chest, ready to turn red any minute. 'I am _very_ sensible! So sensible that I suggested we'd take a car as you might remember. And if we'd taken a car, we'd not have ended here. In this bloody barn, in bloody nowhere, bloody soaking wet!'

'Hm,' Sherlock grunted and John's anger blossomed in his chest.

' _Jesus_! Is that all you have to say?' John snapped, 'Any idea what we are going to do now?'

There was a desperate undertone to his voice, and Sherlock finally turned around and walked over to John. He bent down and looked at him. He found that John looked angry as well as petulant and most of all miserable and he decided to take matters into his hands.

'First of all, we have to get you out of your wet shoes.'

Without waiting for a reply Sherlock squatted on the straw-covered ground and with cold fingers he tried to undo the shoelaces on John's shoes. They were wet and knotted and they simply would not open. 'What _is_ this?' Sherlock muttered impatiently after some unsatisfying moments of shoelace wrestling, but then John took pity and simple slipped out of his shoes, only to immediately resume his unyielding posture.

Sherlock glanced up at him and clicked his tongue, always a sign of mounting impatience. Quickly he peeled away John's wet socks and spread them on a nearby bale to dry. Grabbing a bundle of straw he started to rub warmth back into John's ice cold feet. John did not push him away, but Sherlock sensed his unease, the tension in his body. Rubbing the now dry feet a bit more with his hands, first the left and then the right one, he watched John, and he could feel how hard it was for him not to just snatch away his foot. Instead he simply endured, sitting on this bale of straw, quiet and miserable, deeply hunched into Sherlock's coat.

'There, that's better, isn't it?' Sherlock inwardly winced when he realised that he used the universal soothing words of a _carer_. Busying himself with the straw, covering John's feet generously with it to keep them warm, he also realised that he did not mind as much as he would have thought. A shudder went over John's body and Sherlock looked up.

'What about you?' John asked and the look he gave Sherlock was compelling in its openness. There was elation, maybe because Sherlock was no longer touching him, ruthlessly invading his personal space, but there was also something raw and vulnerable in his gaze, something which forced Sherlock to avert his eyes.

'I'm fine. Don't worry.' Sherlock got up, checking the state of his own shoes and socks, and finding them sufficiently dry, he returned to the door, leaning against the doorpost. Facing different directions they were silent, as there really was nothing to say it seemed, and the relentless pelting of the rain against the roof was the only sound disturbing their thoughts.

'Everything between us would be so much easier if you wouldn't repress your sexual orientation so much.' Sherlock suddenly said in a tone which did not betray his inner feelings. On the contrary he sounded as impassive as if he had been talking about his latest visit to the dentist, an activity falling under the category of boring, but necessary.

John narrowed his eyes at Sherlock. 'What on earth are you talking about? What the bloody hell has my sexual orientation got to do with anything?'

'I am talking about the fact that you can barely stand me touching you in an innocent manner. I am talking about the fact that you are overly conscious of me being around you, and I don't mean as a friend. Your pulse elevates, your pupils dilate, you lick your lips. John, you show all the signs of sexual interest. But you can't admit it, not to yourself, not to me. I am talking about the fact that right now you would have rather remained freezing and, quite possibly suffering from hypothermia as a result of that, than simply _asking_ me to offer you my coat or my help or ...' he broke off and turned around to face John.

'Or?'

'Or admit that you are attracted to me, admit that you don't mind me touching you, and right now, that it would be best to share the warmth of the coat and our body heat.'

John scoffed, and was ready to lash out and deny all, but then he didn't. For once he did not.

'You mean?'

'Yes, John. Obviously I _mean_.'

John stared at the floor, hoping to find an answer or a hint at how to proceed from here. The wildest thoughts decided to flex their muscles, get ready and compete in a race starting in his head, but aiming for his heart. If he was honest with himself, he knew which of those silly buggers would take the winner's crown. He looked up and smiled at Sherlock.

'Come here, then. Warm me.'

Sherlock frowned, obviously unsure of the truthfulness of John's words.

'I mean it. Come here. To me.'

Sherlock cleared his throat and now that John could actually see the insecurity flashing in those silvery eyes it gave him the courage he needed. He held out a hand and when Sherlock took it, it was their first touch which was not a result of chance or awkwardness or because John had to play A&E and apply emergency stitches.

No, it was a deliberate touch, and it was wanted and it was glorious.

Sherlock wrapped his hand, large and slender around John's, small and strong. John smiled again, weakly, insecurity still nestling in the pit of his stomach, and then pulled Sherlock down next to him onto the bale and wrapped the coat around both of them like a cocoon.

There was a bit of awkward jostling and shuffling about until John's head was resting against Sherlock's shoulder and Sherlock's arms were wrapped around John, holding the coat tightly around them both. Warmth started spreading in their little woollen shelter and the insecurity which had gripped John just now gently evaporated.

'I don't mind,' John said, a tad surprised and Sherlock chuckled, a pleasant rumble in the confines of his chest.

'Anytime,' Sherlock answered, and they both knew that he meant it.

John lifted his head then and searched Sherlock's face. He wasn't entirely sure what for, though. That this moment was loaded with significance, that it was a game changer, that much was evident, but still he was looking for confirmation. Their eyes locked and then Sherlock gently brushed his nose along John's cheek, creating the most delicate touch. John shivered in response and Sherlock smiled, intensifying his caress, making it more pronounced, using his lips to ghost over John's stubbly cheek and chin and then he kissed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another fluffy chapter. I don't know I always seem to write fluff in this verse and I truly hope you don't mind! And ... are we even talking about a bedroom here? Well, sort of, if they have to spend the night in the barn, which they probably will have to ... (there might even be another chapter here, what do you think?) Thank you nosetothewind94 for this prompt, although you probably had a bit more than fluff in mind?!
> 
> And thank you all for your lovely feedback, I really love it! Please be so nice and keep it up :)
> 
> JJ xx


	9. Soaking Wet - Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently I confused some of my readers which wasn't my intention at all! Please be so kind and note: Bedroom Tales is not a multi-chaptered fic, but a collection of Johnlock ficlets which are different in tone and in no particular order. Nevertheless they all have in common that they tell a tale about John and Sherlock in a bedroom (of sorts :) - but unless stated otherwise they are not connected! Sorry for the confusion :)
> 
> Here comes the second part of 'Soaking Wet' - enjoy reading!

'It's not still raining, is it?'

Sherlock turned his head to catch a glimpse of John lying on the makeshift bed of straw they had assembled in one corner of the barn, away from the door to protect them from the cold draught coming through the gaps in the wooden door and walls.

'Not quite,' he answered softly. 'But it's not more than drizzle. It's almost dawning, not long before we can finally leave.'

Sherlock pushed himself off the doorpost, closed the door and walked back, the torch he had left next to John beckoning him to return. His heart clenched when John's face in the dim light became visible. Tired and pale it was, but also open and full of something Sherlock could not quite place. Was it friendliness? Awe? Joy? Sherlock himself was conflicted, his heart full to the bursting and hurting just the same. But it was sweet pain, pain that gently tugged at his soul and his heart, touching him in places he had never been touched before. Again, his heart clenched and he stopped in his tracks.

'What's wrong?' John asked, slightly alarmed. He tried sitting up, leaning on his elbows, but struggled a bit. He was tired after a rough night, only a few hours of sleep and he was glad when, close to him, he felt a bale of straw he could lean against.

'I don't know,' Sherlock answered truthfully and furrowed his brows.

'Come here,' John said, his voice so warm and tender that Sherlock was drawn to him irresistibly. He was aware of the implications of such a feeling as much as he was aware of the consequences, and he found that he did not care. He clambered onto the bed of straw and sat down next John.

'There,' John wrapped Sherlock's coat around both their shoulders as they leaned against the bale of straw, huddling close and trying to stay warm.

'I really like being here...' John suddenly said, but then just as suddenly he stopped. He cleared his throat, as usual he had difficulties allowing himself to be open. He was surprised that those few words had slipped past his internal censor unnoticed. It must be the bloody tiredness, he thought and glanced at Sherlock who remained silent. Suddenly he felt that he did not care and so he ventured on. 'It's good to be here - with you.'

'Is it?' Sherlock sounded genuinely surprised as if he could not believe that John would have actually enjoyed spending the night in this barn, in his company, under the circumstances. After all John had been so angry a few hours before, before they had kissed that was. It was John's turn to remain silent and Sherlock realised that a reply of sorts was probably expected.

'I - I am glad to inform you that I experience the same feeling.' He knew his words were stilted, but he was a novice to this soul-searching and had a lot to learn still. To make up for his choice of words, he gently took John's cold hands and covered them with his own. No more words would come to him and so he waited.

'I'd rather be here - _any_ where _-_ with you than alone and as _bloody_ miserable as I was before we met.' John let out a little laugh, surprised how easy this confession had been and his heart filled with warmth and joy. He knew that what he had said was nothing but the truth and he smiled, all to himself. John looked up and saw that it was indeed dawning, the day gradually getting lighter. 'It'll be a while before we can leave,' he said.

'Hm,' Sherlock conceded, not offering more.

John leaned his head against Sherlock's shoulder, and silence engulfed them. The _splat splat splat_ of the rain which had been a steady companion of the night, had finally stopped and to celebrate the awakening of yet another day the birds began to sing. It was peaceful, and John almost forgot that they were both cold and hungry and longing for the comfort of their flat and their beds.

'Why don't you tell me about your childhood?'

'My childhood? Why?' Sherlock was taken aback, nobody had ever enquired about his youth before.

'Because we have time to pass, it'll be a while before we can leave this wet hole and ... I - I want to know,' John simply said. 'I'm interested.'

'Why would you be interested? Nobody was ever _interested_.'

John glanced at Sherlock and saw his face clouding over. There was still so much he did not know about him. So much Sherlock kept hidden from him, and he realised he _wanted_ to know.

'Well, I _am_ interested...' John broke off and stifled a yawn. 'Scuse me ... I don't know - I want to know about your favourite toy or game. I want to know about fights with your friends and birthday parties. Ghosts, pirates, cowboys - what did you like? What were your favourite books?'

Sherlock glanced at John, his face virtually impassive. But John saw that he was fighting the urge to shut him off with a sarcastic remark, before he nodded almost imperceptibly.

Sherlock closed his eyes and relaxed and travelled back in his thoughts. Wandered down darkened corridors and then up a steep flight of stairs and a sharp left turn. He stopped in his tracks and waited, unsure if he really wanted to go there. A smell urged him on, the smell of dusty books, dusty books on dusty shelves, to his left and to his right. He stopped in front of a white wooden door, opened it and stepped inside the room. Blues and greens of the familiar wallpaper flashed across his vision, fighting for recognition with the faded moss green of the duvet on the bed and the light brown of the pine wardrobe in the corner of his childhood room on the top floor of the house. For a brief second the heaviness of endless hours of boredom, spent lying on his narrow bed, assaulted him and he made sure to not lose himself completely to the past, but to remain aware of the reassuring and real warmth of John's body next to him before he spoke.

'I was always waiting. Waiting for the days to pass, waiting for the night when the house was mine, just generally waiting to get older, waiting to get out of the house, to be independent. I hated being young and being told what to do. Hated the boredom and the dependence. I never liked being part of a family, being _part_ of something. I always wanted to be my own. And I always was on my own.'

'Lonely?'

'Sometimes. I had no friends, if that's what you mean. Other children were not interesting enough, slow and dim-witted as they were - and besides nobody was ever interested in me.'

'What about Mycroft?'

'Ah - Mycroft. He was there, obviously - _the older brother_ \- but we were never close, never given to outward brotherly affection. In fact I used to spy on him and tell our parents about what he was up to when he sneaked out of the house at night.'

John snorted and snuggled closer to Sherlock. He gently nudged him to go on when no further explanations followed.

'I'd rather forget my childhood, John. I'm sorry.'

'Don't be ... it's okay, I guess.'

John was content with the silence and closed his eyes. He was so bloody tired and he felt every bone in his body from spending a night lying on the ground.

'Redbeard.'

'Sorry, what?'

'Redbeard, my dog. I - I loved him, I suppose. He was my friend.'

'What happened to him?'

'He was put down.' Sherlock tried to sound unaffected, but even he could hear the sadness in his own words. He made sure to appear more detached when he continued talking. 'Redbeard was a hunting dog, but very headstrong and difficult to train. Liked to roam through the garden, but he also ran away and sometimes he was gone for days. I worried about him, of course, but I understood why he did it. He wanted freedom, be on his own. But when he escaped for the umpteenth time and this time killed two rabbits on a neighbour's farm, they decided he had to go. They told me he had escaped once more and that he had gone to a better place, a green valley where he could _frolick_ and roam freely. Of course that was a lie, a crude attempt to protect a poor child's soul, instead of being honest and admitting that they had been playing God and had ended his life.'

'I'm sorry, Sherlock.' John squeezed his hands and the faintest of smiles played around Sherlock's lips.

'Me too, John.' he said softly. 'Me too.'

John gently extricated his hand from Sherlock's grip and put his arms around him, reversing their roles. Sherlock let his head fall against John's shoulder and closed his eyes. Calm flooded him, and even though the sad memories still floated through his mind, he made an effort to close that particular door in his mind palace and to walk along the dark corridor towards another place. He opened a brightly painted door to a large room filled with almost empty shelves and chest of drawers. Slowly he walked over to one of them and opened a wide drawer. And slowly and meticulously he began to file away the memories of the last days and especially of the last night. His memories of John.

John noticed that Sherlock was gradually relaxing, but seemed to withdraw into himself. He did not mind and hugged him tighter, relishing this quiet moment. And so they sat, huddled together and waiting for the new day to come.

 

 

**ooo**

 

 

'Come on, John,' Sherlock held out his hand to John and helped him to his feet. 'Time to return to civilisation.'

John let himself be drawn to his feet and against Sherlock's chest. Amazed he took in the softness in Sherlock's face and the fondness in his eyes. Slowly he let his head fall forward until their foreheads touched. Sherlock moved his head a bit and they gently kissed. It was only the second kiss they shared and as intimate as this kiss was it still left room for so much more. They both felt that they needed to take this slowly. Tasting, smelling, touching, reverently and slowly, learning the other man's responses and needs.

'Let's go,' John whispered against Sherlock's lips. Sherlock nodded and hand in hand they left the barn to return to the parking lot where they had left the rental car the day before. It would be a hike of two hours or more, time to get used to the new dynamics, time to start believing that this was actually real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the longer wait than usual, but real life kept me busy :)
> 
> I can't say it often enough: I'm so very grateful for the lovely response this collection is getting and I want to thank you all so very much!
> 
> JJ xx


	10. Undress

John loved to watch Sherlock undress. Loved to watch Sherlock shrug out of his coat and unwind the scarf from his long pale neck, apparently entirely oblivious of the effect this was having on those present. Loved the way his skin tingled when Sherlock slowly peeled his leather gloves from his hands, finger by finger only to belie this care and thoughtlessly drop them on a desk or stuff them into his coat pockets. Loved the way his breathing grew erratic when Sherlock let the dressing gown slide from his shoulders, letting it fall wherever it wanted.

Watching Sherlock undress was titillating, and John was acutely aware of the effect it was having on him. Always had, in fact - from the very start. The first time they had sat down together, at Angelo's, when John had enquired about Sherlock's proclivities, checking out if this gorgeous, yet strange man was available, he had been thoroughly mesmerised. Alone in his bed that night, unable to stop reliving this amazing day, he had realised that it had been seeing Sherlock shrugging out of his coat in a manner that spoke of elegance and self-confidence, teamed up with a certain _I don't care_ -attitude which had been the clincher for John. Something which never had happened to him before.

Obviously, he could appreciate a pretty woman sensuously undressing, it was part of the package really. He had also enjoyed seeing his male partners shed their clothes as a precursor to other, more exciting things. But being aroused by the simple act of Sherlock taking off his coat and sliding into the booth of Angelo's like an elegant animal had been surprising indeed.

Since they had come together it was one of John's greatest pleasures just to watch Sherlock, a special foreplay if you want, a treat. No more fear of being caught out, and what made this even better, he was being invited to look, he was encouraged - Because John had learned these past months that Sherlock loved being watched.

 

 

**ooo**

 

 

The day had been long, the mood icy at times what with Sherlock becoming irritated by the tiniest things. John's momentary inattentiveness, Anderson's smugness and Sally Donovan's observational skills. She had been right this time, though, and Sherlock had grudgingly admitted that he had - _possibly, in fact, maybe, but only because Anderson had distracted him_ \- overseen one tiny, but crucial detail.

To put it in a nutshell they all had been more than happy to see each other's backs once they had wrapped the case at the crime scene and John had feared the worst for their evening. A quiet, sulking Sherlock, unapproachable, dismissive of whatever sensible reasoning John might have in store, but after a bit of quiet steaming in the cab home John had sensed that Sherlock's mood brightened. And when he moved over and sat close to John, let his head fall on his shoulder the day's tiredness and with it the irritation slid off them like droplets from a duck's feathers.

John placed a kiss on Sherlock's curls and closing his eyes he settled into the comfortable silence. No need to speak now, they both could read the other like an open book and John knew that once they arrived at home, they would easily find each other again, in words, in an embrace, a kiss or more.

 

 

**o**

 

 

Sherlock ranged the containers with the leftovers of their Chinese takeaway in the fridge. He closed the door and leaned against it, crossing his arms in front of his chest. John was close, busy washing the cutlery and rinsing the glasses and Sherlock lost himself in the lines of John's neck and the strong shoulder blades just visible, straining against the cotton of John's checked shirt when he moved. He reached out and placed a warm hand on John's shoulder, his thumb drawing slow and lazy circles.

'John,' he said, his voice low and inviting.

John looked up and smiled at him. 'Just a minute,' he said and returned his attention to the dishes. Carefully he placed the last glass on the draining board and dried his hands on the kitchen towel. Sherlock sighed, impatiently, clearly he was unwilling to lose any more time and so grabbed John's hand to drag him through the hall and to their bedroom, not bothering to switch off the lights, blithely ignoring their freshly brewed tea on the kitchen counter.

Their bedroom was rather uninviting, dark and chilly and Sherlock closed the window before he switched on the lamp on the bedside table. He shoved the papers, which were scattered over the duvet, to the floor and with a simple command he ordered John to the bed, 'Sit!'

John had no trouble obeying, eager as he was for what would follow. He settled against the wooden headboard, his heart beating faster, and a small smile lighting up his face.

Sherlock backed away, positioning himself just out of reach. Locking eyes with John he lifted his hands and touched the lapels of his suit jacket, his fingers slowly gliding up and down the dark fabric. The fact that he had not taken it off the minute they had entered the flat should have told John what he had in mind.

Sherlock's fingers stilled and then grabbed the lapels only to push the jacket over his shoulders. He shrugged out of it and the black suit jacket sank to the floor with a soft thud. With one foot Sherlock pushed it away. His eyes bore into John's now, his face serious, the weak light of the small lamp showing off the angles and hollows of his face, the shadows caressing the pale skin.

John leaned slightly forward, but a curt nod told him what Sherlock thought of that and so he reclined again, his fingers tracing patterns on the soft duvet. Deprived of the tactile sensation, his eyes roamed over Sherlock's chest, the tight white shirt revealing more than it was covering, the buttons barely holding the expensive fabric together and when Sherlock lifted his hands to undo the first button, the shirt stretched over his chest even more. John's tongue slipped out, wetting his dry lips and he made a conscious effort to still his nervously moving fingers.

One button, another one and after the third button had been undone, Sherlock turned around, presenting his back to John. Perfectly proportioned shoulders and a lean, muscular back, bony hips and a surprisingly lush backside clad in tight black suit trousers. John's gaze travelled along this beautiful body and rested on his bum for a moment before his eyes moved downwards, caressing the long legs. Movement caused him to look up and he saw the shirt slowly sliding over Sherlock's shoulders, ever so slowly revealing pale and perfect skin. John had to summon all his willpower not to get up and cover every inch, every tiny bit of that exposed skin with kisses, licking a trail from the shoulders to those perfect, delicious bum cheeks and he closed his eyes, aware of his rapid breathing and his arousal. He opened his legs a bit, adjusting his posture, relaxing into the moment.

'John,' Sherlock purred and looked over his shoulder, a blush tinting his cheeks. John wasn't sure if he was expected to answer or if it had been a question at all.

'Yes...' he croaked. He cleared his throat, and tried again. 'Yes?'

'Pay attention!'

Taking the sting out of the command with a smile Sherlock turned away again, letting the shirt slide down over his back and fall to the floor as if in slow motion. For a second John thought his hearing was gone, all he was aware of was some white noise and the blood whooshing in his ears. He blinked and sat forward, lightly cupping the bulge in his trousers.

It was torture, having this gorgeous man so close, but out of reach nonetheless, and John leaned forward some more. He knew he would have him soon, but the waiting, Sherlock's refusal to come nearer was driving him insane.

Sherlock's hands rested on his hips, his fingers splayed, unmoving. John was mesmerised by the momentary stillness of those pale, elegant digits and hungrily he followed their every movement when Sherlock began caressing his hips, his thighs, slowly moving over the soft fabric of the trousers. John gulped when he moved to stroke his backside, cupping the gorgeous cheeks and squeezed. A loud moan escaped John's mouth, the suddenness of it catapulting him back to the moment. His slight embarrassment was alleviated by the chuckle, the low rumble coming from Sherlock.

John blinked a few times, he felt that he was going to snap any moment, and irritation replaced any embarrassment he might have felt a second ago. 'Get on with it, you bastard.' he growled. 'Or I will ...'

'Or you will what?' Sherlock turned around and fixed John with his piercing eyes. It was obvious that he was enjoying this just as much as John did. He took a step towards him and held out his hand. John looked from this proffered hand to Sherlock's face and when he found nothing but an inviting smile, he grabbed it and stood up.

Sherlock turned around again, not ready to break the tension with a kiss yet, but guided John's hands to his bare chest and then down to the front of his trousers. Fumbling with the button a bit, John managed to undo it and unzip the trousers. Quickly he dragged pants and trousers down Sherlock's legs and helped him to step out of them.

Straightening John resumed his position behind Sherlock and wrapped his arms around him, his chest pressed against his naked body. Impossible to wait any longer. Covering Sherlock's nape and shoulders with kisses, licking along the strong line of his neck, he felt that he was losing control. Sherlock turned around and John gasped when their bodies, their need, pressed against each other. The tension was almost too much now and John knew he needed more contact soon, now, at once. Sherlock slowly kissed him then and John's skin tingled, the blood rushing in his ears.

'Get undressed, John,' Sherlock whispered against his lips and John did as he was told.

 

 

**o**

 

 

Finally touching, kissing, biting, feeling skin on skin was utter bliss, and today's irritation long forgotten. They knew each other so well by now, every aspect of their personality, knew what the other wanted before he had to say it, knew what made him squirm and sometimes beg. Sometimes passion would overwhelm them and their lovemaking would be rough, sometimes it would be gentle and slow. Occasionally it would be mind-blowing, more often than not it would be merely good, and sometimes just ordinary. Just like their lives.

Today, though, nothing of that mattered, there was no delicacy, no scheme, no more play, as they had no will to last. Having being denied to touch for so long resulted in frantic kissing and groping, in quick strokes and panting, in muttered words and stifled groans, and in a fast, but very satisfying encounter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those of you who have been following me a while know that I don't write pwp/smut (for various reasons). But I like to write sexy scenes and this collection of ficlets seems to be a perfect excuse for just that - or fluff. Ah well ... :)
> 
> I hope you liked that chapter, and thank you very much for your lovely support so far!
> 
> JJ x


	11. Bittersweet

'God! What's the time?'

'Don't know.'

'It's bright day already - I think we should get up.'

'Hm.'

'Seriously, Sherlock ... Greg is coming over for lunch today and ...'

'No he's not!'

'What do you mean, he's not ...'

'Cancelled it.'

'You did what?'

'You heard me, I'm not going to repeat it.'

'Why?'

'Want to be alone with you.'

'Right - Okay... Still, we need to get up at some point.'

'Quarter past.'

'Past _what_?'

'Quarter past never.'

'Funny!'

'Thank you.'

John chuckled, his mirth mixing with a slightly bitter feeling. Every time he praised Sherlock for something which was truly innocuous, like being funny, he was rewarded with that simple _thank you_ and it never failed to tug at his heart.

'Right,' John cleared his throat and settled into the comfort of the feather pillows. He smiled and lightly touched Sherlock's shoulders, his fingers gently trailing the sharp angles. It was warm in the room, too warm for his liking and he tried to wiggle free from the octopus-like form wrapped around his body giving off heat like a veritable little hothouse. He managed to free his feet from the duvet and relished the cool breeze coming from the slightly open window tickling his skin. He turned his face towards the window.

'It must be past ten already, later I dare say, going by the noises from downstairs.'

'Mrs Hudson,' Sherlock mumbled against his chest. 'Living room carpet, hoovering has been going on for at least fifteen minutes. On Saturdays, hoovering the living room carpet follows on the heels of cleaning the bathroom. I studied her cleaning patterns once as a reference for a case and therefore I'd say it's about half past ten.'

'Great,' John sighed. Another noise mingled with the domestic ones coming from downstairs and with awe he listened to the growling of his empty stomach.

'Hungry?'

'A bit,' John shifted again to let more cool air dance over his overheated body and Sherlock grunted. 'Sorry, it's just ... you're so very warm.'

'Hm,' Sherlock acknowledged, but did nothing to change his position one tiny bit.

John sighed, he felt a tingling in his legs and arms, a sign of restlessness and discomfort.

'Don't move!' Sherlock growled, managing to infuse a minimum of authority and irritation into the mumbled order.

'I _need_ to go to the bathroom,' John tried to sit up and found that it was impossible. He was firmly held in place. 'Sherlock! Please.'

'But you _will_ come back?'

'Course,' John said, surprised. 'Of course I'll come back.' He kissed the top of Sherlock's head and when Sherlock lifted his body a bit he managed to crawl out of the bed. He dashed into the bathroom and with a sigh he closed the door to their bedroom. Peering into the mirror he saw a very tired version of himself greeting him, and he splashed a bit of cool water into his face and over his naked torso.

 

 

**o**

 

 

Sherlock listened to muffled sounds coming from the small bathroom, the water running, John's satisfied grunts, eventually the opening and closing of the door to the hall. And then it was quiet.

All of a sudden a wave of loneliness hit him and although he knew it was pathetic to feel _lonely_ with John being next door, he could not prevent a black mood settling over him.

Stretching his arms and legs he tried to coax his mind back from the abyss and to the here and now, telling himself that John had not left him, that he was still in the flat, that he was not alone and that John would be back immediately and that he should stop feeling like an abandoned puppy. He scoffed at his own weakness which he recognised as a side-product of being dependent on another human being. So unnecessary really, as he knew that John was his and he was John's, that's the way it was and there was no cause to worry.

Sherlock turned onto his side, drawing his knees up, curling into himself. Tiredness weighed him down, and mixing with the feeling of abandonment these two were celebrating an unfortunate union. This tiredness had been a steady companion these past days and by now it had taken possession of every bone in his body, seeping into the marrow and paralysing him. He could not with all the will in the world see himself getting up and doing anything productive today - or tomorrow come to think of it. Cancelling lunch with Lestrade had been the last thing he had done before falling into bed next to John last night. And for God's sakes he was glad that he had remembered doing that.

The last days had been pure madness, no rest, no proper meals, no sleep, filled to the brim with tedious legwork followed by a showdown in an abandoned factory in Crystal Palace. A close call it had been, this case - thank God John had been there with him, and for _once_ Lestrade, who had been close on their heels, as well. Sherlock frowned, he was being unfair and he knew it. Lestrade had been a very important help. And John? John had been invaluable, as was so often the case, his presence, his help and the way he had taken care of the injured child.

Little Helen Morris, abducted by her own, very desperate father Joshua Morris. In a short span of time he had lost his job, then his house and when his wife had taken the children and had left him, something had snapped and Morris had abducted Helen, threatening to kill her and himself should his wife not come back to him.

John had been admirably calm, efficient and tender with the frightened and injured girl and had done all to stabilise her until the ambulance arrived. And more, had it not been for John Sherlock would have lost control entirely and would have gladly added to the injuries Morris had already suffered during his reckless flight with Helen through the abandoned factory. They had chased the father, carrying the crying child deeper and deeper into the building, realising too late that he was not armed. The chase had ended with father and child toppling down a flight of stairs.

John had immediately taken care of Helen and still had been attentive enough to realise that Sherlock was close to snapping point, getting up and holding him back before he could take it into his own hands to punish Joshua Morris for what he had done to his daughter.

Sherlock closed his eyes and, not for the first time, cursed his outstanding olfactory memory, preventing him from just deleting the smell that had clung to the abandoned building, the smell now creeping back into his nostrils and assaulting him, a mixture of must, damp and decay, and Sherlock involuntarily turned his head to the side and pressed his lips together. Cases had a tendency to leave a little something behind, a particular image or colour or smell. A trademark which would enable Sherlock to access this particular case later on, using it for cross-referencing purposes and whatnot.

Lying in his bed, reliving the case Sherlock felt the righteous anger flaring up again, the need to hit Morris who had been so cruel to his only child becoming almost overwhelming and filling his mouth with a bad taste. Grunting he pressed both palms against his temples and then he shifted onto his back, closing his eyes, trying to replace the angry red image of Morris with the one of John helping the girl, much lighter in colour, and gradually he was able to find a calmer breathing rhythm again.

The familiar clunking of the kettle against the sink, the sounds of John preparing breakfast pierced the fog of those memories, reminding him that he was at home, that he was where he wanted to be, but also made him realise that he was alone in this bed and more importantly that he should not be, and that John had been gone far too long already.

'John?'

'John?'

'John! Are you coming? _What_ are you doing?'

'Making tea. Want a cuppa?'

'Yes! - For God's sakes, hurry up!'

'Of course, my prince,' John muttered under his breath, the familiar melange of irritation mixing with amusement in his heart. Only Sherlock was allowed to order him around like that. Nobody else would dare taking that tone with him, no, he would put them in their place without a second thought. But he knew very well that he could give Sherlock back just as much and Sherlock would never be angry or offended. Granted he was prone to giant and rather childish sulks, but they had more to do with not being appreciated for his outstanding intellect or with John not acknowledging a need immediately.

John chuckled and leaned back against the kitchen counter, waiting for the kettle to boil.

'Won't be a minute!' he called for good measure, and once the water had boiled, the tea was brewed and the toast buttered, the jam added, he grabbed the shabby metal tray and carefully made his way back to their bedroom.

'Breakfast in bed, what a treat!' he muttered under his breath, toeing the door open with his foot. To be honest he was not in the least looking forward to crumbs in the bed and butter smears across the duvet.

'What are you mumbling?'

'Nothing,' John put the tray down on the night table and before he slipped back into bed he opened the curtains and the window to let in some fresh air.

'You were gone very long, can't you hurry up once in a while?'

'Oh, that's charming,' John stuffed a pillow behind his back to sit more comfortably. 'I'm making breakfast, as bloody usual I might add, and all I get is grumpiness. Not that I actually expect a thank you. I've given up on that entirely.'

John grabbed his mug of milky tea and took a sip. It was good and he sighed contently.

'Don't be like that. I was just ... ' Sherlock stopped, unsure why he had snapped at John, unsure as well how to explain. 'I was just cold ... and I was thinking about Helen Morris.'

'Yes,' John's face clouded over when he thought back to last night. 'Brave little girl.'

Sherlock was not offering any more in the way of explanation or maybe even a tiny sliver of an apology, so John placed his mug on the night table before he went on. 'Touching case, that was, always is when children are involved.'

'Hm.'

'Doesn't explain though why you're so grumpy all of a sudden.'

'I'm not grumpy!'

'Yes, you are!' John bit into a buttered triangle of toast with a flourish, a dollop of jam dribbling onto his bare chest. ' _Jesus_! That's why I hate breakfast in bed!'

They both fell silent and stared at the blood red strawberry jam on John's pale skin, neither of them moving for a very long second.

'Let me,' Sherlock eventually said and sat up.

Slowly he leaned down and licked the jam from John's skin. Carefully, not leaving behind one tiny bit. Done with that, he looked up, his eyes hooded and ran his tongue along his lips like a cat relishing the most delicious cream. His eyes never leaving Sherlock's face John slowly dipped the piece of toast and let more jam dribble on his skin, then placed the toast on the plate and slid down until he lay on his back. With a grin he locked eyes with Sherlock who raised his eyebrows knowingly and answered John's wicked smile. He slowly bent down again.

'Thank you...' Sherlock resumed licking the jam from John's warm skin, '... very much ...' his position became uncomfortable and so he straddled John before he continued, '... for breakfast.'

'You're very welcome,' John grinned, entirely at ease with where this morning was heading.

Sherlock lowered himself carefully onto John's body and kissed him, generously sharing the sweetness of the jam with him. 'I'm sorry, John.'

'Right,' John said, but his train of thought got lost in the sweet kisses. 'What for?' he mumbled eventually.

'For being obnoxious obviously.'

'No worries. I'm used to that.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started writing this chapter with the intention of filling a prompt by Ravenwolf36, but then it developed a life of its own and I really don't think this is what you had in mind, dear? But - I tried and I might come back to your original prompt and try again!
> 
> Thank you all so much for your lovely support, it's so much appreciated and it really keeps me writing :)
> 
> JJ xx


	12. Uncertainty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm on holiday at the moment and sick with a viral infection (heat and fever just do not go well together :( - I feel that I could have edited this chapter a bit more, but I decided to like it as it is and post it so that today will hold at least a bit fun for me.
> 
> Enjoy reading!

Sherlock felt insecure and he did not like it.

Well - what now? Was he expected to follow John? Was it considered customary to adapt to one's partner's sleeping patterns?

Sherlock scoffed, this might indeed prove difficult, what with his tendency to forego sleep altogether whilst in the middle of a case and being insomniac more often than not when not working, whereas John needed sleep like a flower needed water.

He stepped from one foot onto the other, his eyebrows arched quizzically. For the last five minutes he had been hovering in nether land between the kitchen and the living room, unable to make a decision, the very epitome of indecisiveness.

Maybe John expected him to be in bed by now, waiting for him?

Surely that could not be the case - or could it? But why? Were they expected to synchronise their lives to the extent that they went to bed at the same time, got up at the same time, maybe even grew hungry at the same time? What was to be gained by such a childish behaviour? No, that certainly could not be the case. And besides, he wasn't tired in the least, granted he was a bit sleepy, yes, as always after the successful completion of a case, but he had nevertheless no inclination to go to bed anytime soon.

John, on the other hand, had gone up to his room - his former bedroom - to fetch fresh clothes. It was no difficult deduction for Sherlock to predict that taking a shower was what he had planned and judging by how much tiredness his posture had exuded he would then retire and go to bed - to _their_ shared bed in what used to be _his_ room.

Sherlock swayed a bit, to and fro, the indecisiveness even more pronounced now and somewhat immobilising him.

He looked up and cocked his head when he heard a door open and close and then John's footsteps - tap, tap, tap - becoming more and more distinct, down the stairs, through the hall and nearing the door, and then, with an almost content sigh, John entered the kitchen where he found Sherlock, now leaning against the kitchen table.

'Coming?' John asked, motioning towards the general direction of the bathroom and the adjoining bedroom. Smiling he leaned forward and kissed Sherlock, gently and quickly. More an affectionate peck than a full-fledged kiss, but it was enough to unsettle Sherlock and leave him blinking in confusion. 'Yes,' he quickly said, pushing himself off the table.

'Good!' John patted him on the shoulder, sure of himself and smiling. Whistling, he sauntered off, his fresh pants and t-shirt casually thrown over his shoulder, and Sherlock followed like a puppy, apparently devoid of any free will.

John entered the bathroom whereas Sherlock continued through to their bedroom where he remained close to the door, listening to John whistling and to the shower being turned on. Slowly he turned his head and blinked a few times, as if coming to his senses. How had he ended here, when moments ago he had not been certain whether he was tired enough to even consider going to bed?

He turned on his heels, frowning, trying to find some orientation. He noticed that John had not bothered closing the connecting door, had not bothered closing the shower curtain all around him either, leaving his silhouette clearly visible in the mirror facing the shower, facing the connecting door. Sherlock made to turn away, a sense of privacy prevailing.

But he had seen the muscular arms lifting the shower head, had seen John's face turning towards the streaming water, had seen the expression of utter bliss on John's face. He bit his lips, unsure whether he was allowed to watch, quite sure that it was wrong, him lurking in the dark and staring at John. He was absolutely positive that he should alert John to the fact that he was being watched. Simple really, just close the door making a nonchalant remark while doing so - or he could simply look away.

But no, he could not.

Instead he took a step forward, wanting to be closer to what he was witness to, mesmerised by the tanned skin and the sure movements of a man content in his own skin, a man sure of himself. John's arms stretching to wash his hair, eyes closed, the warm water cascading over his forehead, his eyelids and snaking in steady rivulets over his chest and belly, groin and thighs. And to Sherlock he was perfect and beautiful, so utterly beautiful.

Sherlock continued to watch, not even pretending to need an excuse anymore, clearly this was no experiment, no data he needed for a case. No, he wanted to watch and this was purely for his pleasure, for himself. He took another step forward, leaning against the doorpost.

John hadn't been his for long, and they were still very shy with each other. Sherlock was afraid to act on his impulses, and so there only had been the odd kiss and caress, sleeping in the same bed, yes, but not more. A restraint, made bearable by the belief that there was all the time in the world, the belief that John would be patient. Not that Sherlock did shy away from physical contact, far from it, but he was convinced that if he botched that up, if he proved unworthy of John, he would lose him forever. Something that could not be risked, and so they took it slowly - maybe too slowly, Sherlock wasn't so sure anymore.

The steam of the hot water began steaming up the mirror in the small bathroom, and Sherlock involuntarily leaned forward, more and more transfixed by what he saw. His hand became restless, his fingers twitched and then moved on their own accord, it seemed, flexing, as if they wanted more, wanted to touch, to caress and so he lifted his right hand and touched his own lips, his index finger leaving a tickling sensation behind that sent a shiver down his spine.

He lightly shook his head and abruptly turned away.

 

 

**ooo**

 

 

John checked his face in the mirror, he felt clean and refreshed and was looking forward to a good night's sleep. He turned his face a bit this way and that and grimaced when he noticed the pronounced stubble gracing his cheeks and chin. Well, that would have to wait until tomorrow, he decided. Rolling his shoulders a few times to loosen the tension, he winced when they stubbornly resisted the movement. Slowly he repeated the motion, his muscles reluctantly giving in. With a few practised touches he kneaded his shoulders and sighed. He really should go back to the gym, start building up muscles, strengthen his back. Next week, surely, he would start next week, or maybe the week after.

John scoffed, turned off the light, grabbed the t-shirt from the low stool and slipped into it before he made to enter their bedroom. He remained standing in the doorframe for a moment when he became aware of the silence which seemed to permeate the whole flat like a cold fog. Silent, so very silent. In fact, it was completely and almost eerily quiet. No shuffling of papers, no muttered curses, no screeching violin. But not only was it quiet, it was also dark, in the kitchen and the hall, with only the dim light shining from the bedroom beckoning him.

John entered the room and found Sherlock lying on the bed, on the right, his customary side. He was still fully dressed, in suit jacket and trousers and shirt. Only his feet were bare, the pale skin a stark contrast to the black fabric of his trousers. He was staring at the ceiling, his face impassive, his body almost preternaturally still. Nothing in his posture indicated that he had noticed John entering the room. Not a single twitch of an eyebrow acknowledged John's presence.

'I though you were ...' John hesitated, his hand vaguely gesturing to the bed and Sherlock. 'Why aren't you ... you're going to undress, aren't you?'

John was flustered, this unexpected tension had somewhat put a damper on his good mood, and with a frown he turned to shut the door to the bathroom before he went to open the window, letting in the fresh night air. A cool breeze lifted the curtains and caressed John's skin, leaving him shivering. He walked over to the bed and leaned against the mattress, not quite ready to join Sherlock who kept staring at the ceiling, his eyes fixed to the cream paint.

John cleared his throat, 'Right - I just lie down next to you, shall I?'

John sat down on the covers and placed his watch next to the little lamp. He glanced at Sherlock and then stretched out beside him, silence settling over them both. The deafening tiredness John had felt half an hour ago had dissipated, only to be replaced by a certain hollowness in the pit of his stomach. He was wide awake now, as far away from sleep as if Sherlock was screeching away on his violin in the middle of the night.

'Was it something I said?'

'Or have I done something to unsettle you?'

'I thought you were okay with me staying with you here, sleeping next ...' he stopped, but he found that he had been mistaken. Sherlock had not reacted to his words. 'Well, maybe it's too soon, maybe its better if I ...' he didn't finish the sentence, but sat up and was about to grab his pillow when he felt a hand clamp hard around his biceps.

'Don't!'

He turned around and looked straight into Sherlock's face. It was unreadable, but in his eyes there was a kind of flickering, something which John could have sworn was fear.

'Right - Okay.' John half turned and tried to sit more comfortably, a movement made difficult by Sherlock's hand still gripping his upper arm like an iron vice. He looked pointedly from his arm to Sherlock who understood and let go. Immediately he returned to his former position, staring at the ceiling, but his hand remained close to John's leg, close, but not quite touching.

'Well?'

'Well _what_?'

'What's the matter with you? Why this dramatic staring at the ceiling?'

Sherlock closed his eyes and bit his lips. John saw his jaw muscles working as if they were chewing the words before they were allowed into the open.

'Sherlock ...' John softly said and Sherlock turned his head to look at him.

'John. I did something that I clearly should not have done. Something inexcusable. I broke your trust in me and I don't know if you can ...'

'Hang on ... What on earth are you talking about? We've been together the past three days, almost constantly I might add, and apart from the usual snarky remarks aimed at me or mostly others present, there was nothing ...'

'No, John. Now, just now ...' Sherlock stopped and averted his gaze. A blush crept up his neck, slowly and in a very appealing manner. John had to fight the urge to grab him and cover every inch of that lovely blush with kisses. Instead he dipped his chin and listened.

'I watched you - just now, in the shower. Obviously I should have told you, should have alerted you to the fact that the door was open. I'm very sorry for this breach of trust and I don't know if you will be willing to overlook it.' He stopped and drew a breath before blurting out. 'I know that it was wrong, but I really don't want you to go, I don't want you to leave me ...' he broke off and risked glancing at John who looked utterly stricken. Sherlock closed his eyes, feeling something cold blooming in his chest. A low noise like a sob alerted him and he sat up, touching John who was obviously deeply affected.

'I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. You told me the most important part of a relationship was trust and if you can't trust me ...'

'Stop it!'

'I know, I'm sorry ...'

'Stop it! I said ...' John grabbed Sherlock's hands and forced him to look into his eyes. ' _Jesus_! What are you on about?' John scoffed, and Sherlock realised that he had misjudged a very important detail when he saw the mirth in John's eyes. John cleared his throat and his face took on a very serious expression. 'How low do you think of me, Sherlock? Of yourself, of _us_? You watched me taking a shower? Yeah? That's what you did?'

Sherlock nodded, utterly confused now.

'Did you like what you saw?'

Sherlock shook his head, 'That's not at all what this is about ...'

'But did you?'

Sherlock bit his lips, and then he looked up and nodded again.

'Good!' John leaned forward and lightly kissed Sherlock's lips.

'Good?'

'Oh yes! Very good,' John smiled and Sherlock felt that he could answer this smile, albeit still tentatively.

'You won't leave me?'

'Nothing planned along those lines, no.'

'And my breaching your trust is nothing you will hold against me in the future?'

John turned away, glancing at the window as if he wanted to avoid looking at him and Sherlock's heart clenched. And then John was facing him again, smiling and the atmosphere in the room shifted towards something much lighter.

'No, Sherlock. Surprisingly I won't.'

'Well, that's good then.'

'It is.' John gently touched Sherlock's cheeks, his thumb tracing circles over the skin, the light stubble pleasantly tickling him. 'Let's go to sleep, I'm knackered.'

Sherlock quickly turned his head and kissed the inside of John's hand before he could snatch it away, the corners of his lips curling into a lopsided smile.

'Getting old, are we?'

'Shut up, you impossible git!'

'Right.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is insecure (and inexperienced) in this chapter, and sometimes I really see him that way, especially when it comes to John and all those feelings. I used johnwetson's lovely prompt to write him as a somewhat miscalculating, love-sick puppy :) Thank you so much for giving me this prompt (although you probably can't even remember because it took me so long to use it :)  
> And thank you all for reading, commenting, leaving kudos etc. It's more than lovely and very encouraging to get all this feedback!
> 
> JJ x


	13. Fade Out - Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Be warned, there's sadness ahead ...

Impatiently Sherlock took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. He could feel the dent the frame had left behind on his skin and not for the first time he cursed his failing eyesight. A loud whistle made him turn his head and gaze through the window.

'For God's sakes,' he muttered, blinking at the blurry world in front of him, mocking him, demanding to put the glasses back on. The scene unfolding in front of him made him frown at first, but then a smile made the corners of his mouth twitch, timidly at first, but soon strong enough to spread over his entire face.

Smiling he watched John stomping towards the back of their garden, brandishing a broom like a sword, trying to shoo away the neighbour's dog. An endeavour not entirely rewarded with success as the golden Labrador happily ignored him and continued to plough a deep hole among John's beloved carrots, the earth flying every which way.

'Get out, you bloody carrot killer!' John called and stormed towards the dog who first ignored him, but then began happily yelping and frolicking around him, obviously expecting his elderly neighbour to engage in a bit of hearty broom-wrestling. John tried his very best to coax the Labrador away from his vegetable patch in their cottage garden and when he had succeeded, he straightened his back before he patted the dog's back a few times, gently stroking the soft golden fur, a smile on his friendly and weather-beaten face.

Sherlock was about to open the window to comment on the scene, his hand already on the window, when he felt a dark cloud settling over him and the air around him turned cold. He frowned, his mind blank, but then he remembered and the remainder of his smile died on his face. Biting his lips he retreated into the gloom of his study. Impatiently he snatched the glasses from his nose and flung them onto the cluttered desk.

He was loath to remember, hated even more to talk about it, but it was no use, he had to tell John.

 

 

**ooo**

 

 

'This bloody dog!' John dipped his chin to hide his smile in his tea and peered over the rim of his mug. 'Ploughed through my carrots like a bloody bulldozer. I really need to have a word with Mrs Simpson, she has to look after him better.'

'Mrs Simpson is almost eighty-five, John. It might just be that this dog proves a bit too much for her.'

'Well, then, she shouldn't have taken him in!'

Sherlock frowned, 'You know very well why she had to, don't you?'

'Yes,' John mumbled, snatching another chocolate digestive from the plate. 'And I think it was very noble of her to offer him a place in her home when her son emigrated to Australia, but the fact remains that this dog is a bloody nuisance!'

'Hm,' Sherlock had nothing meaningful to add and so he turned his head and looked out through the window at their front garden. All he could make out was a blurry haze, surely due to the rather dull late summer afternoon. He remained silent.

'Where are your glasses, Sherlock?'

'Don't know.'

'You lose them more often than your father used to, God rest his soul. We should really get you one of those chains to wear them round your neck.'

'Absolutely not!'

John narrowed his eyes at Sherlock and sipped a bit more of his milky tea. Sherlock was very pale and he looked annoyed, grumpy even. An expression which did not best suit his face, which was just as lean as it used to be, but with a web of wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, and framed by hair more grey and white than black these days. It was still full and curly and John loved how it reminded him of the young version of Sherlock, the one he had fallen in love with all those decades ago. There was no doubt that he was still very handsome - and very vain.

'I think those glasses make you look very distinguished, I like them.'

'Distinguished! That makes me sound like an old man!'

'You _are_ an old man.'

'Not as old as you!'

'You just had to point that out, didn't you?'

'Obviously. It's a fact.'

John's smile faltered a bit. He looked away and allowed silence to settle between them. They avoided looking at each other until John slapped a hand on his thigh, got up and placed the mug on the table.

'Right. I still need to tidy the garden - a bit,' he said and with a light pat on Sherlock's shoulder he left the kitchen.

Sherlock leaned back in his chair and listened to John rummaging in the corridor, heard him putting on his wellies and slipping into his jacket. Then the back door clapped and it was quiet. Sherlock turned the mug in his hands, the tea long gone cold and unappealing. He placed his mug next to John's on the table and closed his eyes. When he spoke it was into an almost absolute silence.

'Don't worry, John. You will certainly outlive me.'

 

 

**ooo**

 

 

John rubbed both his hands over his tired face. The book he had been trying to read had slipped from his hands and had tumbled to the floor, the loud thump waking him. He peeled back the warm eiderdown duvet and made to bend down to retrieve the book. His back protested against this exertion and he had to stifle a colourful curse when he grabbed the book. With an ungraceful groan he settled back against his pillows. No more reading for him then. John sighed and checked the clock on the night table. Half past eleven.

'Sherlock?'

There was no response. Not that John would have expected one, at least not immediately. It wasn't that Sherlock's hearing had deteriorated, no, in contrast to his eyes his ears were just as sharp as they had been, but usually he was so absorbed in what he was working on that John calling him did either not register or - worse - was being pointedly ignored.

'Sherlock? Will you come to bed?'

'Not yet, I'm working.'

'Right.'

John huffed and puffed a bit, trying to settle into their bed alone. He closed his eyes and slowly relaxed his body, first his back, which gave him hell, then his shoulders, his legs. Lying beneath the covers was nice, and he relaxed - not enough to find sleep, though. Not quite enough.

'Sherlock?'

'Yes?'

'Please come to bed, I haven't seen you properly all week. Why don't you give it a rest whatever you're working on.'

'No. I've got to finish this.'

John did not answer, what really was there to say? He, of all people, knew that work still mattered a lot to Sherlock and that he would not sleep until he had reached a point in his experiment or research which would allow him to could call it a day and enable his mind to find some rest. So John closed his eyes, wrapped the duvet around himself, trying to get warm and comfortable - and slowly he drifted off to sleep.

 

 

**o**

 

 

In the study illuminated by the dim glow of his desk light Sherlock was perched over the laptop, furiously typing, trying to remember, trying to put it all into words. He was writing an account for John, for him to keep, for him to read.

Sherlock stretched his back and blinked. He was dead tired and longed to be with John, longed to feel his warmth, his comfortable presence, but he also felt that he had to use his time wisely.

He hesitated and pressed his palms against his temples in frustration because the name of a client of a relatively recent case continued to elude him, simply refused to stand out clearly in his memory, whereas insignificant details of his past, his youth and childhood were vibrant and lively as if it had been yesterday.

Be that as it may - and it cost Sherlock a preternaturally amount of composure to keep his calm - it really had to be done. He absolutely wanted to write this account of the past years, he had to leave something.

When they had left London behind and had retired to their cottage ten years ago, John had stopped recording their occasional cases and adventures. Granted, they were few and far between, but the name Sherlock Holmes still meant something, was still known and valued, and so they had worked on cases brought to them by the local police force or by private clients. Not enough cases by far for Sherlock's taste, but they helped to break up the regularity and tedium of their retired life and were, as well as the bees Sherlock kept in the garden, a welcome interruption.

His eyes began to sting and he snatched the blasted glasses off his nose to rub them. Tiredness shrouded him like a cloak and there was nothing that he craved more than going to bed. Sighing he closed his eyes and leaned back in the chair. All of a sudden rage paired with sadness attacked him and he slammed his fists hard on the table. He found that he relished the sharp sting of pain.

Why him? Why did this dreaded disease affect him, why _this_ disease which would leave him changed, worse, make him unrecognisable, eventually destroy him? His life had been dedicated to solving puzzles, using his extraordinary mental capacities, his brain, his logic, alongside the ability to detach himself from other people, from feelings. Now, all of that was in danger.

In the next months and years this disease would slowly destroy his brain and would turn him into an empty shroud, depending on others, depending on John. Ultimately unable to take part in conversations, unable to use his brain, unable to live independently.

Well - that was if he did not wait until it was too late to take his fate into his own hands - there was always another way out.

Sherlock leaned forward, the consequences of the diagnosis Dr Hunter, their GP, had presented him with a week ago, hanging over him like a dark cloud, making it impossible to concentrate on his writing any longer. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, but he did not know what to do with them. He growled in frustration and angrily shoved a whole stack of papers to the floor.

Disgusted he pushed his chair back and got up, it was no use, he needed some sleep now, he needed John.

 

 

**o**

 

 

As quietly as possible Sherlock slipped underneath the covers. John stirred in his sleep and turned towards him, grunting, but not waking. Sherlock settled on his side, facing John, studying him in the pale moonlight falling through the open window. His eyes trailed the familiar and beloved face, weather-beaten, much leaner and more angular these days, the white, well-trimmed beard and the white hair interspersed with a few ash blond strands. This scrutiny was pure indulgence on Sherlock's part because he obviously knew every tiny detail, had filed away all the different variants of John's face, all the changes throughout the years - and he hoped with all his heart that he would never forget them.

John stirred again and moved towards to Sherlock as if he was a magnet and John had no choice but to come closer. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock and drew him close until there was no space between them and they were a unit. Sherlock buried his nose in John's hair and sniffed, inhaled the woody scent clinging to his hair, the various scents of their cottage garden, the blue sky, tea, biscuits - life.

And he knew then that he could not stand being without John, could never be apart from him, could never leave him.

But something else became clear to him as well. Sherlock could not tell him.

Not yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be a second part to this chapter, a resolution (of some kind). I hope you liked it despite the fact that the tone is much sadder than the previous chapters. 
> 
> Even if this chapter (and the next) might feel like a kind of ending, rest assured there will be more chapters, showing the boys in happier scenarios. As long as I have ideas (and prompts to fill) I'll continue to write more in this verse :)
> 
> And again, thank you all so, so much for your lovely feedback :)
> 
> JJ x


	14. Fade Out - Part II

The day was cold, the coldest this winter had seen, and Sherlock was sitting in his upstairs study trying to work. Before John had left him to drive their old car to the garage to get the brakes fixed, he had made sure that there was plenty of tea and some biscuits and he had double checked that the heating was on. These days, more than ever, it fell to him to look after such mundane things as Sherlock's mind gradually refused to take them into account.

Only last Thursday John had come home from grocery shopping and a dentist's appointment, two things which had eaten more of his time than anticipated, and the fire in the living room had gone out, the heating had not been turned on at all, and he had found Sherlock wandering in the garden, still in his dressing gown and pyjamas, tending to his bees.

This morning had been good so far and Sherlock had seemed bright and alert. John had left him in the belief that everything was well and when he returned around eleven he first ranged the shopping in the kitchen and the larder, leaving the beef and the vegetables on the kitchen table for later. He was deliberately taking his time although he was itching to check on Sherlock. He fairly forced himself to slow down, drying off the wooden chopping board with meticulous care, even polishing one of the brass handles of the wooden dresser to a shine. After all, he did not want to give Sherlock the impression that he was being monitored.

Something else made him hesitate as well. As glad as he was that Sherlock seemed almost himself today, he also knew that this alertness usually teamed up with a willingness to contradict and to fight. Sherlock would become exasperated quickly, over-sensitive and cutting and as a result John fought hard to restrain himself from lashing out in return as he would have done - before. Sometimes he hated himself for this consideration, and he knew that Sherlock, aware that it was John's admission that something was horribly wrong with him, hated it too.

John noticed that his fingers trembled when he filled a kettle with water to place it on the Aga, and he leaned against the warm stove for a moment to calm down. Soon he felt he could not wait any longer, and yet, he took his time to dry his hands on a tea towel before he climbed the steep stairs to Sherlock's study.

The door was open, the room bright with wintry sunlight and toasty warm thanks to John's precautions. Sherlock was perched over some journals and photos, giving the impression to study them intently. John placed a hand on his back, 'You all right?'

'Hm,' Sherlock mumbled.

'Good, good,' John knew that he would probably not say much more, but he was unwilling to leave him just yet and so he remained hovering near, moving the tea pot a bit to the side, making sure that the tea cosy had kept its content warm, arranging the custard creams, Sherlock's favourite, in two neat rows on the plate.

'No need to fuss so much, John.' Sherlock snapped. 'I can manage, I'm not an imbecile!'

'Of course, you're not.' John stopped what he was doing and prepared for what might follow, careful to keep his calm. 'I want you to be comfortable, that's all.'

'I am.'

'Well, that's good then.'

Sherlock stared ahead, his shoulders tensing. 'I'd appreciate being alone, I really want to get some work done.'

'Oh - right, sure. I've got plenty to do as well.' John motioned towards the kitchen, remembering the heap of dirty plates still in the sink and the stew waiting to be prepared. He kissed Sherlock and made to go, but he lingered in the door, unwilling to leave just yet. 'What is it exactly you're working on?'

'Some cold cases from years ago - from - um,' Sherlock cleared his throat and stopped talking. For a moment he seemed lost for words and John closed his eyes. These moments were painful and John knew how much Sherlock loathed to be seen like this. 'Um - you know, some of those cases - the ignorant idiots at the Yard could not crack. Quite - um - interesting, really.'

'I'm sure you'll crack them in no time.'

Sherlock bent his head, but he did not answer. Cold cases, the older, the better, that was all that was left to him. That was all his slowing mind would allow him, and only on good days that was. He knew that today was one of them and he wanted to make the most of it.

Steepling his fingers underneath his chin Sherlock sat back in his chair. It was as if copying his old thinking pose would somehow give him back parts of his old analytical and arrogant self. A posture meant to boost his confidence, but he looked so frail, so lost that all John wanted was to be close to him, as close as possible, cradle him in his arms and whisper in his ear that everything would be all right, that everything would be back to normal. But John was an honest man, a realistic man, and most importantly a doctor who had treated plenty of patients with the same symptoms. And so he refrained.

And of course he knew that Sherlock would frown upon it, all this fussing and _frankly unnerving_ hand-wringing. So he resigned himself to knocking against the wooden doorframe as a kind of goodbye. He waited for a response, but either Sherlock did not hear or he deliberately chose not to acknowledge John's signal and so he left him to it.

 

 

**ooo**

 

 

With a sigh John closed his book and placed it on the night table, neatly placing his glasses on top of it. He settled back into his pillows, huffing and puffing like an old bear, and glanced at Sherlock who had come to bed with him half an hour ago. He was leaning against the wooden headboard, a pillow stuffed behind his back, the tablet computer on his lap. John saw that he was going through a photo album, one of his daily exercises designed to jog his memories, to keep the faces fresh in his mind.

'Finished?' John asked.

'Yes,' Sherlock nodded and shut down the computer. He wasn't even close to being _finished_ , but he was tired and the faces had begun to blur into one a long time ago. He wouldn't admit it to John, but it hurt him how little he remembered from last night when he had last gone through those photos.

His glasses followed the computer to rest on the night table and then he lay down, next to John whose hand searched Sherlock's. His touch was soft and it was wonderful and it partially shooed away the numb feeling that had settled over him. He turned to the side and John understood. Opening his arms he invited Sherlock to snuggle close, to settle his head on his chest. They were comfortable like that and did not speak for a while, each of them reliving the day's events.

'Has Mr Jones been to check the heating?' John suddenly asked.

Sherlock moved a bit to hide the fact that he was caught off guard by John's question. 'Mr Jones?'

'Yes, he was here last week. Very interested in your beehives, he was. You know, tall man, dark hair, maybe fiftyish.'

'Right. No, he's not been here. Nobody's been here today.' Sherlock shook his head, yes, he was sure of that, even though he did not know who this Mr Jones was supposed to be.

'Okay, fine. I'll call him tomorrow.' John tried very hard to sound casual, careful to hide the naked fear that was creeping into his heart. It was getting worse, Sherlock's short-term memory was slowly, but irretrievably getting worse. John needed reassurance, just _bloody_ needed it - and he knew he could find it in their past. Sherlock would know, oh yes, he would.

'Do you remember that dinner we had after we first met?'

'You mean, at the Chinese in Baker Street?' Sherlock closed his eyes and bit his lips. This was easy.

'Yes,' John wiggled to find a more comfortable position. Sherlock lifted his head a fraction to allow him the move. 'Ready,' John said and Sherlock settled back onto John's chest with a sigh. Despite the cold night their window was half open and a very cool breeze tickled their faces. John reached down to pull up the eiderdown duvet and to cover them both.

He wasn't sure if Sherlock needed more prompting, but he was loath to push him too much.

'It was strange and outstanding, that dinner,' Sherlock eventually said and by his choice of words John knew that he remembered very well. 'The case, the whole night was outstanding. We were virtually strangers and yet you managed to follow the traces and find me in that maze of Roland-Kerr further Education College. You realised that I was in trouble and did not hesitate to kill that murderous cabbie for me.' He softly chuckled as those moments stood out clear as glass in his mind. 'I was astounded by your actions, by you and your whole demeanour, your nerves of steel and ... the way you ... you talked to me.'

'Same here,' John said, wrapping his arms tighter around Sherlock. 'Never ever in my military or civilian life had I met anybody quite like you. Such arrogance, such haughtiness, such brilliance. You were - you _are_ \- bloody unique.'

'Lovely choice of words, John.'

'Want more?' John softly chuckled. 'Outstanding, amazing, infuriating, obnoxious, aggravating, gentle, warm-hearted, loving, beautiful ... mine.'

Sherlock was quiet for a moment before he said, 'Ditto.'

'And nothing will ever change that.'

Again Sherlock was silent, a common occurrence these days. He was hesitating, wary in moments when there used to be nothing but speed and brilliance. He could not trust his instincts anymore and needed to ponder a bit longer on anything he wanted to say. He took his time, but then just quietly repeated what he had uttered mere moments ago, 'Ditto.' And again he fell silent - Sherlock closed his eyes and fought against the onslaught of emotions that coursed through him. For God's sake, he knew exactly what John was doing and he equally hated the fact that it was necessary as he loved John for doing it without explicitly telling him.

As a doctor John knew of course all the symptoms and the few procedures open to patients, and obviously Sherlock had researched all he needed to know about this blasted disease. It was a blessing, and a cruel joke really, that all this theoretical knowledge about Alzheimer's was gradually being eclipsed by its practical consequences. What a mean, cowardly trick fate was playing on him, how mockingly cruel it was to gradually turn him into this useless shroud, into this parody of his former self. How much he hated to be this _burden_ , how much he hated to lose his independence!

Sherlock shuddered as if he was cold and then intertwined their legs and tried to get even closer to John who answered by kissing the top of his head. John understood, of course he did, and Sherlock was grateful that there was no need to make a lot of words - not anymore. They had talked about his ailment and what needed to be done and how John would look after him, and how they had decided to keep the most radical solution open to both of them if they could not take it any longer. One thing they had been quick to agree on - they would not be separated, Sherlock would stay with John, John would stay with Sherlock.

The silence settled between them, but John felt that Sherlock had grown agitated. Had felt his body tensing, had felt the need to be near, the need to almost crawl underneath each other's skin, felt his helplessness and tears welled up in John's eyes. He made no attempt to hide them nor did he wipe them away. He was beyond any false bravery and he knew that Sherlock did not object to sentimentality overly much any more. Old age had mellowed him considerably in that respect and despite the prevailing sadness John chuckled.

'What is it?'

'Nothing - I was just thinking back to some of the stunts you pulled, reducing poor men and women to tears with your outrageous behaviour, pretending not to understand human nature.'

'Yes,' Sherlock's lips curled into a tiny smile. 'I did have a certain reputation. Obviously I had to live up to the picture people had formed of me as a 'freak'.

'One of life's great misunderstandings.'

'Clearly. Though to be fair, I was a kind of _freak_ before I met you, and it was you who showed me the difference between a decent and an ordinary human being.'

'You were never ordinary, never ...'

'In comparison to you?' Sherlock turned his head and looked at John. When he saw the tears he frowned, but did not comment. Instead he finished his thought. 'Oh, I was indeed ordinary, so very ... ordinary.'

John bent down to kiss Sherlock. He was a little surprised by the turn this conversation had taken. They smiled at each other, both aware of the sadness they were feeling, but thankful for this moment nonetheless. Sherlock settled back onto John's warm chest and closed his eyes, trying to blank out all the troubling thoughts, trying to find some rest, some sleep. John weaved his fingers in and out of Sherlock's curls and then his fingers gently massaged his temple. It was a relaxing and soothing touch and listening to the strong and steady _du-dumm, du-dumm, du-dumm_ of John's heartbeat Sherlock slowly drifted off to sleep.

 

 

**o**

 

 

A gust of wind softly rustled the curtains, lifting the soft material thus allowing the silvery moonlight to fall onto the bed. Dancing across the duvet it eventually found two men sound asleep, their arms wrapped around each other, their faces calm and peaceful. Sleep had smoothed the rough worry lines life had etched into their faces and by a trick of the silvery light they appeared so very young, so strong and full of life.

Clouds passed the moon, momentarily blackening the night sky, but nothing could disturb the healing powers of peaceful sleep which helped them to regain some strength to get up again tomorrow and to make the best of the day that lay ahead of them. That's what they invariably did - And they had learned to accept every day left to them as equally a challenge and a blessing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading - and I promise that the coming chapters will deal with happier moments :)
> 
> I hope I managed to convey at least a bit of hope in that chapter, I really could not bring myself to take it further. I wanted them to have tender and hopeful moments, yet be fully aware that these days will be limited. And that's sad enough, I think.
> 
> Thank you so much for all your lovely support :)
> 
> JJ xx


	15. Bliss

'Dull, boring, predictable'

John hesitated a moment, then went on neatly folding the plaid he was holding before he turned to Sherlock. He raised one eyebrow questioningly.

'Dull?'

'Yes.'

'Boring?'

'Yes, yes.'

Predictable?'

'Hmm.'

'You don't say!'

Sherlock looked up at John. Equally versed in the art of eyebrow raising, in fact matching John's skills in that department easily, he waited.

'Have you ever...' John placed the tartan plaid on top of the holdall and waved his hands about, '... done this before?'

'No, but I gather it's easy, not requiring an extraordinary amount of skills.'

'Is it now?' John pressed his lips together and dipped his chin. With a slight note of irritation he grabbed the tent, still neatly contained in its original packaging, and pushed it towards Sherlock. 'Go ahead then, show me!'

With an impatient motion of the head Sherlock got up, grabbed the largish package and set out to unpack the tent, put it up and then fix it to the ground. There was a bit of grunting and John was sure he even made out a minimum of hesitation, but he had to admit that Sherlock was efficient and quick.

Besides, it was a lovely sight, Sherlock on all fours, crawling over the ground to fix the corners properly, his jeans-clad behind in the air and the sleeves of his loose white linen shirt rolled up to his elbows. Jeans and a loose shirt, unusual pieces of clothing indeed, and giving Sherlock a decidedly holiday-ish air.

John muttered a quiet thank you to everyone involved in the tent-business and, remembering a request Greg had made when handing them their present, John fished his mobile out of his trouser pocket to snap a few pictures of Sherlock's efforts, all the while relishing the sight of his lean body in this casual attire - The long, sinewy arms, the revealed skin pale and unblemished, the fabric of the trousers deliciously stretching over his luscious bum ...

However it was a short-lived pleasure as after merely ten minutes the tent was secured to the ground, inside and out, and Sherlock emerged from the tent with a smug smile plastered over his slightly flushed face. With an impatient gesture he pushed some cheeky curls off his forehead. John did not hesitate to preserve this moment for posterity as well.

'There! Child's play!' Sherlock exclaimed, the smile ever so slightly widening. 'For once I'll leave the interior decorating to you. Don't think you can go terribly wrong there and the untamed wild is more your expertise, don't you agree?'

John smirked and grabbed Sherlock's shirt collar to bring him near enough for a kiss.

'And I'll leave it to you to destroy it again later?'

'Obviously!'

They both smiled and not for the first time they thought how lucky they were. And not for the first time they failed to find the right words to voice this sentiment aloud.

'Enlighten me, where and when did we acquire that tent?'

'Wedding present.'

'Oh?' Sherlock narrowed his eyes, a puzzled expression on his face. 'Who from?'

'Greg Lestrade and the Yarders. _Jesus_ , Sherlock! How much of our daily life do you actually filter? I mean how much of it does pass your _'worth remembering'_ test?'

'Let the data be meaningful enough and it passes,' Sherlock quipped and kissed John again. He motioned to the phone in John's hand. 'And the photos?'

'Greg was adamant to send proof should we ever use the tent.'

'To add to his collection, no doubt!' Sherlock scoffed, but there was no malice in it. 'Now that that's sorted, remind me. Why are we doing this ...' he waved his hand about, '... this _camping trip_?'

'You can hardly call this a camping trip now, can you? We're barely half an hour away from your parents' cottage, it's only for one night, and we won't starve as your mother packed us a hamper which would make the Queen blush.'

'Hm,' Sherlock grunted and stood up.

'We've been stuck at your parents' for a week. Not that I don't like your parents, you know I do, but I thought it would be nice to elope for a while. Get some fresh air - just you and me.'

Sherlock did not answer. Stretching his back he let his gaze travel along the vast greenness in from of him. Over the hills, the lush green valley, the meadows dotted with sheep and gorse and the occasional tree. Behind the little clearing they had chosen as their resting place for the night tall pine trees and a clump of birches sheltered them from view and in front of them the valley gloriously stretched out empty and infinitely. 'It's not entirely unpleasant, I grant you that.'

John stood up and joined Sherlock. Leaning his head against his husband's chest he wrapped both arms around him. 'I'm glad you like it.'

'A bit.'

'Yeah - all right. A bit.'

Sherlock kissed the top of John's head, 'Let's get everything sorted quickly. I'm bored by all this rummaging around in the wild, but you'll be surprised to hear that I am not entirely averse to those sandwiches my mother packed.'

'Well, then,' John smiled. 'What are we waiting for!'

 

 

**ooo**

 

 

If Sherlock had been a romantic man he would have started humming a seductive melody under his breath or recited poetry in the face of the beauty that was this night - John sitting close to him, outside their tent, the air cool, but not cold, the sky clear, the night falling rapidly - But no words were exchanged, there was just the occasional glance or touch, and calm and peace was gently settling over them like a velvety cloth.

Sherlock found that he was quite affected by this moment and he felt that it might be interesting to catalogue his body's reactions to this peaceful moment. His heart was beating hard and fast, his bare arms were covered in gooseflesh where the light breeze was dancing over his skin, his throat was constricted and dry and there was a feeling in his chest as if a myriad of little birds were happily flapping their wings - urgent, but pleasant, fast, but calming nonetheless.

_Bliss!_ \- Yes, if he had been prone to sentimentality that would have been the word to describe this moment - _Utter bliss_.

'It's beautiful, isn't it?'

Sherlock turned to John who had spoken ever so softly. He saw that John was gazing at the sky, his eyes bright and gleaming, a smile on his face, and Sherlock could only nod and whisper, 'Yes.'

John tore his gaze away from the stars and turned to Sherlock, only to find him watching him, his face serious, his brows knitted.

'What is it?'

'Nothing,' Sherlock cleared his throat and inspected his hands, a blush creeping up his neck.

John looked away and smiled. His heart filled with love and he breathed deeply. _Endearing_ , that's what it was, Sherlock blushing in a moment like this. John knew that he would be quick to refute, would even fight that word - _I'm not endearing, John! I'm not_ _a puppy_ \- how he would scoff and probably sulk. But still, that's what it was - endearing.

And John loved such tender moments, rare as they were. Of course he knew that Sherlock loved him, but more often than not daily life would swallow the odd gentle touch or they would rather keep their love inside instead of spelling all out. But sometimes John was entirely taken by surprise at the intensity of the feeling when they were together, and he knew that for Sherlock it sometimes must be so much, too much and overwhelming.

John dipped his chin, burying his smile, unwilling for Sherlock to read his face right now - But think! What a wonder that was! This man, overwhelmed by sentiment! A man regarded as cold, arrogant and alien by those who did not have the fortune to know him. Even regarded as unable to love by some ignorant people.

Involuntarily John shook his head _, What bloody nonsense! What utter shit!_ Of course, he knew better, had known better from the moment they first met. His heart clenched and he looked up and into the distance, needing a moment.

'I love you,' John said softly into the dark, surprising himself, but for once unable to hold back. 'More than anything in my life.'

'I know,' Sherlock answered and intertwined their fingers, his thumb tracing gently circles over John's skin. 'The feeling's mutual.'

'Yeah - right,' John chuckled and lifted their intertwined fingers to kiss the back of Sherlock's hand.

'Tired?'

'Quite,' Sherlock bit his lips and glanced at John. 'What about you?'

'I'm all right. I was able to catch up on sleep at your parents' house. What with you busy with your father and the mysterious theft of the church silver.'

Sherlock chuckled, 'Child's play.'

'Your father seemed positively delighted, you know. Working with you, his son, the great Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, the only one in the world.'

'Clearly,' Sherlock smugly conceded. 'He was a great help, though.'

'I bet he was,' John kissed Sherlock's hand again.

They sat in silence for a while, watching the darkness settle over the valley, enjoying the almost absolute quiet, interspersed only with the occasional cry of a lamb answered by the reassuring bleating of its mother. John yawned, covering his mouth with both his hands, rendering his claim to be well rested somewhat implausible.

'Come on,' Sherlock got up and extended a hand to help John up. 'Let's go to bed.'

 

 

**ooo**

 

 

It was so silent.

Entrancingly, bewitchingly silent - and the rustling of the plaid, the sound of skin on skin, the soft moans was all there was to pierce the velvety darkness. Tenderness was exchanged in a way as if they had agreed to match the mood nature had set for them. Barely audible panting and moaning, causing Sherlock to adapt the intensity of his touch to the softness of John's reactions. Warm hands gently travelling over skin, ghosting over the shoulder blades, muscles and settling on the skin of his back, caressing, worshipping.

John arched his back into the caress, giving himself entirely to the sensation of being touched, and he let himself fall. All he was aware of were those strong hands and then the soft lips trailing down his spine, tracing dips and hollows, accentuating the muscles, the softness. Short breaths, gasps, closed eyes, moans - nothing more, but enough to pierce the silence surrounding them, mingling with the soft sounds of the night.

Some noise outside made John open his eyes, bringing him back to the here and now and suddenly the urge to see Sherlock's face, his eyes and lips, to really connect became overwhelming. He turned swiftly, his motion cutting through the peace and calm like lightning, and he found Sherlock so tantalisingly close, so very near, his eyes gleaming in the dark.

Without hesitation John's lips found Sherlock's mouth, eagerly kissing him, his hands connecting with warm skin, roaming over the softness, willing to caress, to touch and to give back what he had received. It was as if John was driven by the want to consume Sherlock entirely, to wrap his whole being around him, fuelled by the urge to make them one.

And yes, that's what they were - right now, right here as much as what they always would be - One.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you godiva33 (vikulee) for the idea! You wanted the boys on a camping trip, and I hope you like this variation of your prompt (at least a bit).  
> Well, after the sadness of the last chapter I wanted to write something fluffy and angst-free and I hope I managed.  
> Thank you very, very much for all your wonderful support so far, it really makes my day :)
> 
> JJ xx


	16. Fighting Battles

A loud knock on the door woke them.

'John? Breakfast is ready. I expect to see you in the dining room in twenty minutes. Sherlock's not in in his room, so I want _you_ to tell him, and please do hurry. Mycroft will be here in thirty! Chop-chop!'

Sherlock blinked his eyes open. For a moment orientation failed him, but with a sigh he remembered where he was and who would have the guts not only to wake them so rudely, but who also would have no qualms ordering grown men about.

'Jesus, your mother knows no mercy!' John angrily flopped onto his back and rubbed his eyes. A mighty yawn made his next words incomprehensible.

'What?' Sherlock asked and adjusted his position in the bed which was really too narrow for two grown men.

'I said, she reminds me of one of my old commanding officers.'

'I've heard worse descriptions,' Sherlock chuckled and peeled back the duvet.

'You're really getting up? Immediately?'

'Of course! Believe me when I say it's not worth the trouble.'

'I guess you know more on that subject than I do.'

Sherlock raised his eyebrows mockingly. 'Never fight the battles you can't win, concentrate on those that are manageable. Fighting my mother over breakfast? Tried and failed. No longer worth wasting my time.'

He bent down to grab his briefs and pulled them on. Getting up he languidly stretched his arms and legs like a cat getting up after a refreshing afternoon nap. He only needed to lick his _paws_ and start grooming his curls and the image of a beautiful, though bored, feline would be complete, John thought and grinned.

'What?' Sherlock asked.

'Nothing. I like what I see, that's all!'

'Hm,' Sherlock looked puzzled and turned away to snatch his dressing gown from the low table. 'With you in fifteen minutes. Use my bathroom here, I will use the downstairs bath, so we won't be late.'

'You really don't want fight this battle, do you?'

'Nope!' Sherlock took his wash bag out of the suitcase and returned to the bed to kiss John. 'There are far more important battles to fight, don't you think?'

 

 

**ooo**

 

 

'Are you comfortable in the small room, John? The bed's not too narrow for you?'

'We're fine, thank you very much.'

Mrs Holmes raised her eyebrows and glanced at her husband. John winced when he realised that he had answered a question that had not been asked, at least not in so many words. Carefully Mrs Holmes placed her cup in the saucer. 'John, can I ask you something?'

'Sure. Go ahead.'

'We rarely see Sherlock as he's so terribly occupied, almost never finds a spare moment to visit or for a quick call at least. Mycroft's the same, John. Honestly, I don't know why I am burdened with sons who are so busy and tend to forget about their parents constantly.'

John grew slightly uncomfortable with the way Sherlock's mother seemed to talk over her sons' heads, conveniently ignoring the fact that both of them were sitting at the breakfast table.

'I see more than enough of him,' Mycroft said. A sour remark, accompanied by a cool smile, barely lifting the corners of his thin mouth.

'Myc, why don't you make him call sometimes?'

Mycroft's lips turned downwards and with awe John saw the mighty Mycroft Holmes was slightly daunted in the face of his mother and bit back a cutting remark. Not managing quite, though, 'It's Mycroft, mother. Please stick to the name you have chosen to burden me with, thank you.' He then made a visible effort to add, 'As far as my little brother is concerned, believe me, there's nothing in the world which would could bring your precious son to do something he doesn't want to do!'

'Not even you?'

'No, mother. Not even me.'

Mrs Holmes sighed, 'Why can't you two think of your parents for once? We worry, you know!'

John glanced at Sherlock and Mycroft who shared a look which, despite all their usual banter, their constant aggressive bickering, spoke of brotherly understanding, of a bond which made them a unity. John felt a pang when he thought of Harry, his sister, his only sibling he had not seen in years. Absentmindedly he took a bite of his buttered toast, entirely lost in thought and so Mrs Holmes' next question hit him quite unexpected.

'John, tell me. Does Sherlock sleep properly? Does he eat regularly? And most importantly, are you happy with my son?' She leaned forward and fixed her eyes, eerily similar to her son's, on John. 'And is Sherlock happy with you?'

John choked on the piece of toast and grabbed the milky tea to help it down, but his hands were unsteady and he spilt some of it. He set down the cup to grab his napkin. Dabbing at his chin, his eyes searched Sherlock who seemed entirely unfazed, his eyebrows raised - quizzically, or was is sarcastically? - John wasn't so sure and it annoyed him.

'Well,' he croaked and cleared his throat. Again he glanced at Sherlock, looking for reassurance. Sherlock was offering no help, though, but studiously avoided John's gaze. Mycroft's face was buried behind the newspaper, but he was surely following the exchange intently.

'I can't speak for Sherlock of course, but I am... um... fairly... um... content.' He nodded before he repeated what he apparently deemed the right choice of words in this context. 'Yes, content.'

'Content?' Mrs Homes sat back in her chair, and John's skin prickled. _Bloody hell_ , he had not passed, had miserably failed what now seemed like a test, and suddenly he felt ill at ease. Again he glanced at Sherlock who finally answered his pleading gaze. He merely shrugged his shoulders and a faint trace of a smug smile played around his lips. John glowered at him and Sherlock's smirk widened, yes, definitely widened.

'Well, I would have expected a bit... _more_ , to be honest. What do you think, dear?' Mrs Holmes turned to her husband who was busy reading the Sunday Times and, frankly, looked less than pleased to be disturbed.

'You're absolutely right, dear,' Mr Holmes mumbled, his remark garnished with a practised little smile, before he turned back to his paper. John recognised the refined technique of a married man, one who had realised that he could win not all battles, and that some of them were simply not worth fighting in the first place.

Mrs Holmes patted her husband's arm affectionately and when John saw the tiny lopsided smile Mr Holmes aimed at his wife in reply, he quickly averted his gaze. There it was, one of Sherlock's trademark gestures, and to see it mirrored in his father tugged at John's heart.

Mycroft shaking his newspaper broke the spell and John glanced in his direction, barely catching him rearranging his face into the impassive mask that had become his trademark. But he had seen the slight smile and he realised that despite all his nagging Mycroft was enjoying the situation, and John was sure that what he enjoyed most was his discomfort.

 

 

**ooo**

 

 

'Why didn't you say something?'

'You didn't need my help.'

'Maybe not, but ...'

'But what, John? You're a grown man, you can fight your own battles.'

'It wasn't entirely _my_ battle, though, was it?'

John sounded annoyed, but did not show the usual signs of anger, and Sherlock was conflicted. Unsure which route to take, he decided to wait. Slowly he leaned back on the bed, his eyes never leaving John who remained standing next to the window. John smiled at him then, this small, quick smile which could mean anything and nothing and which was, even for Sherlock, hard to decipher sometimes. John looked away, out of the window, and crossed his arms in front of his chest. Definitely growing more agitated now, Sherlock thought, and sat up. Time to get to the heart of the matter, time to move forward.

'Well?' he prompted.

'Well _what_?' John snapped as predicted and Sherlock got up to join him at the window.

'You're such a _grumpy old man_ sometimes,' Sherlock was careful to infuse just the right amount of sarcasm into his words to rile John some more and for good measure he placed a quick kiss on the crown of John's head, emphasising the height difference, which was rather pleasant as far as Sherlock was concerned and not to be mentioned if it was up to John.

'I'm not, and I think it is as plain as day why I am ...'

'Grumpy?'

'Oh right, bloody well right, then. I _am_ grumpy.'

'Yep!'

Sherlock slipped his arms around John's waist and placed his chin on John's shoulder. Together they looked out of the window. It was a glorious day, much too beautiful to spend indoors. Much too bright and sunny to spend in Sherlock's old room and be _grumpy_.

'It's a longstanding principle of mine never to discuss private matters with my family.'

'Hm,' John scoffed.

'And I'd advise you to do the same, John.'

'Why?'

'I don't understand.'

'Why do you want to keep everything inside? Why are you buttoning up your feelings?'

Sherlock frowned and let go of John. He straightened his back, taking a moment. 'It's not exactly uncommon, is it? I mean, we're grown men, living our lives, we're independent. We don't talk about certain things. You, of all people, should know. You lived most of your life in denial of your sexual orientation and as far as I know you never talked to your family about it. You know how it is, don't you?'

'That's not exactly the same, though, is it.'

'Oh, but I think it is, John.' Sherlock made as if to go, but then he turned back. 'Besides, we are here, at my parents' cottage, who - more or less - know what we are - no, correction - who know precisely what we are to each other, whereas I have not even met your sister, let alone your parents. And while we're at it, let's not conveniently ignore the fact that whenever we meet acquaintances of yours or old army companions, you pass me off as a _friend_. Now, who's buttoning up here, John?'

Sherlock's voice had never risen, his tone had been perfectly amicable, but John knew him. Knew that this blatant impassiveness and obvious indifference was just a facade and the fact that Sherlock was bringing this up at all, was telling enough.

'I never knew you'd minded,' John was aware that what he was saying was weak and he cleared his throat, buying a bit of time. His hand brushed over Sherlock's arm, his fingers coming to rest on the sleeve buttons, absentmindedly twirling them. 'You know I have virtually no contact to my parents, and Harry is... well...' He glanced at Sherlock who had turned to him and was studying him intently it seemed. Instead of unsettling John, this scrutiny was emboldening him and he continued. 'Harry is a recovering alcoholic, as you know... and I am furious with her that she is throwing away her life...' John shook his head. 'I can't forgive her that she ruined the one relationship that would have saved her.'

'Clara,' Sherlock said and John nodded.

'I guess that's why we don't talk.'

'Clearly.'

They both fell silent and John glanced around Sherlock's childhood room, almost feeling the young version of Sherlock around him.

'You are mine, Sherlock.'

'Yes?'

'And I don't share,' John smiled, but the smile was not returned.

'Letting people in on what we mean to each other is not _sharing_. I'm sure you are aware of the difference. Besides, I have found that your denying of us being a couple is hurting.'

John cast his eyes downwards. What a topsy-turvy moment this was, John thought. Sherlock Holmes castigating him because he had not shown enough sentiment. John scoffed and glanced at the glaring world outside. 'You're right, of course,' he eventually said. 'I'm sorry, it won't happen again.'

'Obviously. I intend to make sure that denying it will be much harder for you in the future. The fact that you'll be wearing a ring and, if all things go according to plan, you will have added a little something to your name won't make it as easy to introduce me as a friend instead of ...'

John's mouth fell open, 'Are you ...?'

'It would seem so.'

'Are you really?'

'Yes. It's about time for us to move on, don't you agree?'

John stumbled backwards in surprise and Sherlock's hand shot out to steady him. Gently he led him over to the unmade bed and lowered him onto the duvet.

'Well, that's bloody unexpected.'

'Is it really?' Sherlock smirked. 'I think it is fairly obvious. But as usual you see but you do not observe. Why do you think we are here? Because I had a mighty need to be in the countryside? Or because I wanted to relive my _happy_ childhood days in this stuffed room? No, John! I wanted you to meet my parents, and I wanted Mycroft to be a witness of it all!'

'I see,' John covered his face with both hands and when he let them sink to his lap a big smile slowly spread over his face. 'I accept!'

'Clearly!'

'You are impossible, do you know that?'

Sherlock knelt down in front of John and cupped his face. Their kiss was so tender, so full of unspoken love that a sigh escaped John.

'You are mad, you bloody well are!' John leaned his forehead against Sherlock's and closed his eyes. Something occurred to him then and his eyes flew open. 'Hang on! Popping the question and telling your family was your plan all along, that's why we're here?'

'Of course. I'd say letting them in is inevitable, don't you think?'

'Yes - Well, yes. But what about this _longstanding principle of yours_ , the one concerning never to discuss private matters with your family?'

The grin which accompanied Sherlock's answer was downright sinful and John's heart went out to him. 'Well, there are moments in life when you have to ignore even the best of principles.'

'Surely,' John agreed. The next moment his face clouded over. He straightened his back, and that he was uncomfortable was more than obvious. 'Were you thinking of having a proper wedding, a big one for thousands of pounds, with a reception and speeches, dinner and...'

'Dancing?' Sherlock's eyes lit up as if the thought had just occurred to him.

'Yes, that.' John's shoulders slumped and he looked thoroughly deflated.

'Don't worry, I'll tutor you. I love dancing.'

'You do?'

'Always have. I was waiting for the right case to come up to show you. I guess I don't have to wait anymore!'

Sherlock got up and held out his hand to John. His face was serious now, the smile that had lit up his face a moment ago gone. John cleared his throat and shuffled forward on the bed.

'Here?'

Sherlock nodded, his hand still extended, 'Yes. Here.'

'We have no music.'

'We won't need any.'

John dipped his chin, but he smiled. He slipped his hand into Sherlock's and got up. For a moment they were merely facing each other, standing close, their closeness alleviating the slightly embarrassing situation.

'I'm atrocious, I'm afraid.'

'Don't worry, I'll show you.'

'An expert, are we?'

'Yes!' Sherlock grinned, but he made no move to start his tutoring any time soon. He looked down at John who was so close, his warmth, his scent enveloping him. Eventually he lifted John's hand and slipped his other hand around his waist. 'Just follow my lead.'

'I could have guessed,' John mumbled and let himself be gathered into the correct position. 'What... um... what dance?'

'English Waltz, a classic and fairly simple. Even an absolute beginner can master the steps of this one fairly quickly.'

'How very reassuring! Thanks!'

'Just... just follow my lead.'

Sherlock started to dance and John tried his best, but he could not help staring at his feet, trying to anticipate the next step while trying to avoid stepping on Sherlock's toes and failing miserably on both accounts.

'Don't look down, John! Your feet are not important! Look at me, don't think, let me lead you! Concentrate on me, not your feet!'

'Easier said than done.'

Sherlock just snorted, not rewarding this beginner's complaint with a reply and John tried his best. Soon he found that staring at Sherlock's pale throat right in front of him instead of staring at his own feet did not exactly help him, but instead proved yet another distraction. With a sigh he gave in and kissed Sherlock's neck.

'Concentrate! John, really...'

'How can you expect me to...' John stopped dancing and cupped Sherlock's face. 'When you are so close!' He kissed Sherlock who did not kiss back first, but John was adamant. 'Kiss first, dance later, Sherlock. Sorry, I did not make the rules.'

'What childish rules are that?' Sherlock scoffed, but feeling John's soft lips on his and refusing them was not an option and so he gave in as gracefully as he could.

'Don't think, I'll forget that we still have to practice the dance. I will remind you, repeatedly.'

'Sure,' John whispered between kisses. 'Later we'll dance. Later... Promised!'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff - nothing but fluffety, fluffy fluff :)
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it and I want to say sorry for making you wait (much) longer than usual for a new chapter, but real life was very demanding!
> 
> Thank you all so very, very much for your support, I can't say how much I love it!
> 
> JJ xx


	17. Healing Silence

An explosion of pain, little bright stars zigzagging through his vision, tiny daggers of pain attacking and tormenting him, leaving him only the one option. He gave in, squinched his eyes shut and stopped in his tracks. Careful to keep his breathing shallow and the motion at a minimum Sherlock leaned against the bannister, slightly swaying despite his efforts. He moaned in pain when the pain attacked him anew.

'Come on,' John very gently nudged him on. 'We can't stay here.'

Sherlock replied with the slightest of nods and blindly groped for John's hand. His grip was vicelike, strong and desperate. John accepted the pain and slowly led Sherlock up the remaining steps.

Sherlock was careful to keep his eyes closed, relying entirely on John to lead him. There was no way he would offer this pain a new possibility to attack him. The pressure on his temples and the boring pain behind his right eye was excruciating enough as it was. Allowing the blinding daylight to pierce his brain again with daggers was out of the question.

All of a sudden something new added another level to the torture, tormenting him, and he felt bile rise in his throat. A ticking sound, becoming louder and louder, painful and insistent. A raw, a monstrous sound, designed to kill his last remaining will to survive this moment. Sherlock's grip on John intensified.

'Stop ... that,' he pressed out between clenched lips. 'Can't ... take it.'

'What? What is it?'

John stopped on the landing, his hand at the small of Sherlock's back, and tried to fathom what bothered him. The flat was very silent and rather gloomy in the fading afternoon light, the remains of their breakfast still on the kitchen table, the newspaper strewn around the kitchen floor. Just as they had left it when they had rushed out to meet Lestrade this morning.

'Clock ...' Sherlock hissed, his annoyance barely covering the panic in his voice. 'Clock ticking...'

'Ah,' John understood and, making sure that Sherlock would not collapse, he rushed into the kitchen, climbed onto one of the wooden chairs and stopped their kitchen clock on the wall.

Sherlock sighed when the blasted sound stopped and allowed his eyes to slightly open. A mistake as he immediately realised when another wave of pain shot through his head. But then John was at his side again, steering him towards their bedroom, then slowly navigating their way to the bed.

'Wait a sec,' John sat Sherlock down and closed the window and the curtains, shutting out daylight and noise as effectively as he could. He snatched his pocket alarm clock from his night table and stuffed it into his trouser pocket for the time being. Pausing he listened into the silence. He nodded, yes, it seemed alright.

Gently he helped Sherlock undress and to lie down. He knew that there wasn't much to be done as long as the migraine attack was as acute as this, and so he merely fetched a wet washcloth from the bathroom and put it on Sherlock's forehead.

'I'm next door if you need me.'

He bent down and placed the lightest of kisses on Sherlock's dry lips. Sherlock did not respond, his eye shut tight in an effort to keep out all further disturbances, his lips pressed together and his whole body tense and preternaturally still. John knew that all he could do for the moment was to wait for the meanest pain to abate and then he could set out to effectively ease the remaining pain.

Right now, all they could do was wait.

 

 

**ooo**

 

 

John checked on Sherlock every half hour, invariably finding him in the same position on the bed, the intense pain painting ugly shadows across his angular face and making him appear paler than ever.

After two hours John finally found Sherlock asleep, his face marginally relaxed and he breathed a sigh of relief. Sleep would do its wonders now, and when he awoke John would be there for him.

Carefully he closed the bedroom door, loath to disturb this healing process and went into the kitchen to brew a fresh cuppa. John filled the kettle with water and while he was waiting for the water to boil he cleared the table from the remains of their breakfast. Now that Sherlock was sleeping he could do some household chores, even be moderately noisy.

He was more than relieved actually that Sherlock had finally found sleep and that this bloody migraine attack seemed to abate. Involuntarily John bunched his fists. _God_ , how he hated those attacks, how he hated seeing Sherlock suffer that way, and today in particular, as there, right in the back of his mind, was a tiny memory making him feel uneasy. A memory, a feeling like a bad taste after he had eaten something nasty, and it bugged him - because he had done nothing about it when they still had had the chance.

The day had started rather well actually. Well, _normal_ , more like, like lots of other mornings in Baker Street. Granted, Sherlock had been a bit quiet, rather tetchy, and he had looked pained, come to think of it, and - well, if John had not been so damn preoccupied with his own affairs he might have noticed all that, might have noticed that one of those bloody attacks was imminent and the severity of this one might have been prevented.

But no, he had felt sorry for himself because for days he had been grumbling, had been bothered by this _bloody_ middle age approaching. John snorted mirthlessly, who was he kidding here, middle age was not approaching, he was already immersed up to his shoulders in it, being laughed at by it and being mercilessly tugged at his sparser hair, the little devil mercilessly showing him who would be boss from now on.

And to top it off a more or less mild form of a sodding midlife-crisis was pouncing on him, rendering him discontent because he felt out of shape, pudgy even - let's be honest, unattractive. Besides, his joints ached when he picked something up and his eye-sight was gradually getting worse. No wonder really that he was in an almost permanent state of irritation these days. Only this morning he had grudgingly resisted a second piece of buttered toast, can you believe it? But there was no way in this world that he was getting any pudgier, thank you very much ...

John scoffed and felt another pang of regret as for those rather silly notions he had not seen that Sherlock had been extraordinarily absent and silent, and that he had shown some of the tell-tale signs of a commencing migraine attack. Strong painkillers combined with strong coffee, administered in the first hours sometimes helped to ward off the worst, but John had been too busy with his own _problems_ to help. And then a case had beckoned and so they had set off, the early signs of the migraine forgotten.

John sighed, silently thanking his maker that, if not from middle age, he had been spared from any kind of headaches, apart from the occasional hangover that was, and then no one else than he himself was to blame.

'Why the _hell_ did I not see it?' John cursed and slammed his fist onto the table, immediately regretting the noise. He strained his ears, but there was no sound in reaction to his outburst coming from their bedroom.

'Right - good,' he mumbled and rubbed his fist, and when the kettle whistled he made sure to turn it off at once. John prepared his tea and, after sniffing it, added a generous dollop of milk before he sat down to read the newspaper, patiently waiting for Sherlock to wake up.

 

 

**ooo**

 

 

John adjusted his position, careful not to move Sherlock too much. With infinite gentleness he resumed drawing little circles on Sherlock's temples with his fingertips, very gradually increasing the pressure. From experience with past attacks he knew what helped and he knew exactly what he had to do.

'It wasn't your fault, you know,' Sherlock eventually said, his low voice cutting through the cool silence in their bedroom.

'I know, but I could have noticed earlier.'

'Well, yes - but so could I,' Sherlock settled back onto John's chest. 'You put on a bit of weight, didn't you?' John was about to answer, irritation painting his cheeks pink, but Sherlock continued softly. 'Six and half pounds, and I don't want to miss a single one.' John bit back a remark then and continued the soothing motion and with every completed circle Sherlock relaxed more, fairly melting into him. More and more so until the pleasant weight of his upper body on John's chest warmed and united them, chasing the last of those irritating thoughts away.

'It's been a bad attack, though,' John said eventually, bowing his head so that he could place a kiss on Sherlock's unruly mob of curls. 'Aura as well?'

Sherlock nodded, but winced when the remnants of pain made this motion uncomfortable for him. 'My sight was affected as well as my hearing. Every single sound was like an explosion in my head ...' his voice trailed off and John applied a bit more pressure to his temples before he slowly moved his fingers backwards into his hair, massaging his hot scalp in firm circles.

'Good,' Sherlock pressed out and John noticed how utterly exhausted he sounded.

'Why don't you sleep some more? I think it would do you good.'

John moved and Sherlock misunderstood. 'Don't go!' His eyes shot open and he half sat up, ready to fight any notion John might harbour of leaving him here, alone and still in pain. 'Stay with me.' Sherlock whispered and swallowed around a lump in his dry throat. 'Please.'

'Right - Okay. I will.'

With tender force John guided Sherlock back into his reclining position and placed both hands on his chest, one hand covering his heart, feeling the fast, but steady heartbeat beneath his fingertips. Slowly he feathered out his fingers, enjoying the warmth of Sherlock's skin seeping through the skin fabric of his shirt. 'I won't go anywhere. I won't leave you.'

Sherlock closed his eyes and nodded almost imperceptibly. John caressed his chest and then moved his fingers up his neck and on to his temples to resume applying gentle pressure.

Leaning his head against the wooden headrest of their bed John closed his eyes. How silent it was, he thought, how completely devoid of sound the room seemed. Like a sealed unit which not even the noises of the usually never sleeping city could penetrate. For the moment nothing seemed strong enough to pierce this bubble of utter silence. As if the world had accepted all noise had to cease for a while to give the great Sherlock Holmes time to heal. Love filled John's heart and a small smile played around his lips.

'I will never leave you,' he whispered into the silence, but if Sherlock had heard he showed no reaction to his words. John's smile grew, and assuming Sherlock had gone back to sleep, he closed his eyes as well and shared the healing silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have suffered from migraine attacks since I was a child, so I used my very own experience to describe Sherlock's pain. Headaches are very varied in their intensity and every sufferer experiences them differently, but that's what the most severe of those migraine attacks were like for me.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed reading this (shorter) chapter and I want to thank you again for all your wonderful support! It's so very much appreciated :)
> 
> JJ xx


	18. Cornered - Part I

'For God's sakes do something!' Sherlock demanded angrily. 'And do it now!'

Lestrade turned away from the map he had pinned to his office's wall and towards Sherlock. He was about to deliver a retort just as angry, but was stopped short by the panic he saw flickering in Sherlock's eyes. There was nothing left of the haughtiness of one hour ago when Sherlock had strode into his office, worried, yes, but with his usual arrogance and cool poise firmly in place. It was this unexpected glimpse of human frailty which made the Detective Inspector overlook the fact that he was being commanded around like your ordinary constable, his rank conveniently forgotten once more.

'I told you all our men are out there looking for him.'

'I hope you've instructed them as I told you to.' Sherlock started pacing the room, his fingers nervously worrying the hem of his suit jacket. 'This man harbours a grudge, and it's the worst kind of all because it's personal.' Sherlock came to a halt in front of the window and looked out into the black night. Lestrade had to strain his ears to catch his next words. ' _That's_ why he took John.'

'Why? What do you know? What is it?'

Lestrade was standing right behind Sherlock now, the combined smells of a long day in the office, coffee and donuts wafting off him. Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment in an attempt to fight a wave of nausea. He leaned his forehead against the cold window pane, sealing himself off from Lestrade's proximity.

'When John was a junior doctor, at St Bart's, he operated this man's mother, Dora McDylan. There were complications, and the woman died. It happened when the ward was seriously understaffed and John had to go through a string of operations in addition to working double shifts and so on. You know the misery.'

'Yes,' Lestrade curtly conceded.

'By all means it wasn't John's fault, but of course a grieving son has his own perspective. And I fear ...' he broke off in an effort to regain control over his voice which had started to betray him. 'I assume he wants revenge for his mother's death.' Throwing all caution to the wind he turned around and violently confronted Lestrade. 'You _have_ to find him! I could _never_ forgive myself if ...' He broke off, biting his lips.

Lestrade glanced away, slightly embarrassed to have witnessed this raw display of emotions. He fixed his eyes on the map, giving Sherlock the space to recover and cleared his throat, 'I understand. Completely. Don't worry, we'll find him.'

All of a sudden something shifted behind Sherlock's eyes and coldness tinted his next words. 'Tell me again. Why am I here, staring out of the windows, and not out there with your men? Surely you'll agree that I could give them the decisive hints. I am no use here! _Why_ for God's sakes are we still here?'

'All right!' Lestrade lifted his hands in a placatory gesture. 'I'm merely waiting for Donovan to get back to me. Then we're off.'

Sherlock snorted derisively and driven by the need to do something, anything at all, he started pacing Lestrade's office again. The ringing of a mobile on the desk stopped him in his tracks.

'Donovan?' Lestrade's face betrayed nothing and Sherlock cursed the Inspector's very professional ability to hide his feelings. 'Yeah, right. Okay. See you in a minute.'

'What? What is it? What happened? Tell me!'

'Calm down, Sherlock.'

Lestrade grabbed his jacket and slipped into it. He took a moment to fish a notebook out from under a pile of papers and to slip his mobile into his coat pocket. Only then did he turn to Sherlock.

'They've found him.'

 

 

**ooo**

 

 

Sherlock fidgeted in his seat, leaning forward to peer out into the darkness. There it was and he was out of the car before the tyres had even screeched to a complete halt. Lestrade killed the motor and followed Sherlock, not bothering to close the doors of the unmarked police car.

The warehouse and its surroundings were plunged into blinding light by the police floodlights and thus Lestrade had no problem following Sherlock who was running across the forecourt towards the entrance, his coat billowing out behind him. Donovan stopped him at the door and he lost sight of Sherlock who continued delving into the brightly lit building, not bothering to ask any of the PCs for directions. As if he was irresistibly drawn to where John was, Lestrade thought. Like a piece of metal to a magnet.

When Sergeant Sally Donovan started relaying the details of McDylan's arrest, Lestrade pushed Sherlock's extraordinary behaviour to the side and concentrated on the case at hand.

 

**o**

 

John was leaning against the bare brick wall, his breathing shallow, his eyes closed, and sitting very, very still. Too still. Sherlock's heart clenched and he rushed towards him, dropping to his knees beside his flatmate. Frantically his hands patted down John's arms and legs, checking for injuries, and thankfully finding none, his hands then gingerly cupping John's face. Sherlock let his head fall forward until their foreheads barely touched. 'Thank God!' he breathed. Without another word he sat down beside John and slumping against the wall he closed his eyes. Exhaustion flooded him now that the tension was broken and he felt every bone in his body. All that he was aware of was that John was beside him now, his breathing steady, that he was alive and that all was good.

'Sherl...,' John whispered, his words barely audible. A hollow tiredness attacked him then and he leaned against Sherlock. 'Thank you.'

 

 

**ooo**

 

 

Sherlock lingered in the door, the urge to be around John stronger than the need to be alone. He frowned, uncomfortable to be compromised by his _feelings_.

John was lying in his bed, eyes closed, his face ghostly pale and sweaty. Worry gripped Sherlock's heart and in his anxiety he was too fearful to accept the paramedics' verdict that John was merely exhausted, dehydrated, but otherwise unharmed. They must be wrong, he thought. He's not well, he's suffering, he's evidently hurt. He edged closer towards John's bed, only turning back to close the bedroom door.

'Stop lurking about, will you?' John said, trying to sit up in his bed. He was struggling, so naturally Sherlock shot forward to help him. 'I'm fine, stop fussing!'

Sherlock's hands fell to his sides, his fingers twitching nervously. But then he realised. 'You're angry!' Sherlock quickly sat down on the edge of the bed and faced John. 'Why are you angry?'

'Why am I ...?' John huffed and a flush crept up his neck. Interesting, Sherlock thought. That he was angry was evident, but why would he be embarrassed? Sherlock frowned, fixing his gaze on John who avoided looking into his eyes.

'McDylan could only abduct me because I was too bloody stupid to avoid the bloody trap he had laid out for me ...'

Sherlock cocked his head, 'Well ...'

' _You_ would have noticed, I'm sure.' The words came out far more cutting that he had intended and John dropped his gaze. He cleared his throat, 'Anyway ... I want to thank you again for getting me out. I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't found me. McDylan was getting more manic by the minute.'

'Strictly speaking it was Donovan and her men who got you out.'

'But you were there ... immediately.'

'Well, yes. True, I was ... I might have urged Lestrade to take a few, not necessarily legal, shortcuts. I ...' and then he broke off, the memory of the panic he had felt in that moment overcoming him. He closed his eyes and pressed his palms against his temples. 'I needed to see you, needed to know you were well.' He faced John, 'I swear I don't know what I had done if McDylan had harmed you. I ...' again words failed him and he glanced away.

John could not quite believe what he was seeing, what he was hearing, and yet, it was there right before his eyes. Sherlock Holmes, the cold, the analytical, the unfeeling Sherlock Holmes. Lost for words. And what words they were, what feelings. Here - and ... in the warehouse as well. Sure now that he hadn't hallucinated his flatmate's distressed face, the almost palpable relief and the intimate touch. Startled, John became aware of his heart hammering in his chest, of the dryness in his throat and nervously he cleared his throat again.

'Yeah - right. Well, I am okay now,' he said and it sounded lame even to his own ears.

'Yes,' Sherlock nodded slowly. 'You _are_ okay, aren't you?'

'Quite - quite okay. I'm a doctor and I assure you I am all right. I could do with a bit of sleep, though. I'm knackered.'

'Yes, yes of course.' Sherlock got up quickly, his face once more controlled and the cold hard feeling of regret that he had let the mask slip blooming in his chest. 'I will be downstairs if you need anything.'

'Right - thanks. I think I'm just ...' John lay back in his bed with a sigh and closed his eyes. Exhaustion washed over him and before Sherlock had even reached the door he had fallen asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah well, yet another variation of the endless 'How John and Sherlock get together' topos you might say. And you're right, but I have to admit that I like it a lot and what's more, I love to write it. There will, obviously, be a second chapter as I can't leave the boys like that, can I?
> 
> Thank you all so much for your lovely support!
> 
> JJ xx
> 
> P.S. : The 'case' was inspired by one of the cases of the Sherlock App.


	19. Cornered - Part II

_It was dark. And it smelled. A cloying, overpowering smell, dark and earthy. Not entirely unpleasant, but when John tried to swallow, it seemed to cling to his throat like a film, making him retch. A cool draught touched his face and he shivered, as much from the sudden change of atmosphere as from the fear of what it might entail. Without thinking John scrambled backwards, his back meeting resistance after a yard or so -_ No! - _Anxiety gripped him, he was trapped, this was it -_ Don't ... please _\- John moved sideways, groping in the dark, desperately trying to find a way out, a door, a recess, a gap he could hide in. His breathing grew erratic when the realisation hit him that there was nowhere he could hide, nowhere at all._

 

 

**ooo**

 

 

Sherlock was restless. Clearly, the situation at hand meant that sleep was elusive, nothing new to him who could not find slumber easily at the best of times. The day and all it had brought had been exhausting and now that the early hours were crawling in, he was here, in the kitchen, tired, yet wide awake, sitting upright and still, yet restless. His right hand was toying with a slide, his left twirling a pen. As if seeing them for the first time he stared at the paraphernalia of slides, Petri dishes and test tubes in front of him and sighed. The experiment he had started working on was dull, predictable, boring, nothing that could hold his attention or, better yet, distract him, nothing that could not wait, really.

With a thud he let the slide and the pen fall onto the kitchen table and got up. He checked his phone for messages, but there were none. An hour ago Lestrade had provided a five-minute-distraction when he had phoned to inquire about John's state. Sherlock had been unwilling to talk about it and when the Detective Inspector had had the nerve to involve Sherlock in some idle chitchat concerning the Yard, he had been quick to nip in the bud what had reeked of too much familiarity.

Oh, and Mrs Hudson had been, obviously. Repeatedly. Her bubbly, usual self she had been, trying very hard to hide her anxiety, using every halfway justifiable pretence to fuss around the flat in her overly motherly fashion, worrying, disturbing him. It had cost Sherlock all available willpower not to snap at her to get out and stay calm for God's sakes. How he hated to feel this anxiety emanating from her, when he himself was a bundle of nerves, each and every one raw and hurting. He had breathed a honest sigh of relief when the noises from the downstairs flat had eventually ceased, indicating that Mrs Hudson had gone to bed.

Carelessly Sherlock flung his mobile onto the cluttered table and went through to the hallway. He cocked his head - _Silence, almost absolute silence_ \- That's all there was - _But wait! Not quite_ \- He sat down on the stairs leading up to John's room, straining his ears and eagerly drinking in every little sound floating downstairs from the bedroom above. The squeaking of the bed when John turned, the little sighs and moans, every single one like a slap across Sherlock's face, every single one a remainder of his failure to protect John.

The hallway was cold and gloomy and he was shivering in his thin sleep shirt and shabby pyjama bottoms, the toes of his bare feet curling around the edge of the cold wooden step. He hated to be in this state, hated to be so restless and confused, hated that he could not concentrate on anything - anything besides John - _nothing_ but John. And when he heard a strangled cry from upstairs he was up in a second, throwing all caution to the wind. Taking two steps at a time he climbed up to John's room.

 

 

**ooo**

 

 

No! _John turned, trying to dodge a blow. The fist barely connected with his jaw, the pain a triviality. But he was a fighter himself, knew that missing would only add to the other man's fury and so he let him hit him. Once, twice, hard slaps across the face and then mean little jabs to his shoulders and abdomen, one, and then another one and another until he felt his abductor tire and relent._ You bastard! _John nodded, pain throbbing through him, dull and insistent, but he ignored it._ Come on! Is that all you've got? _He looked up and when he saw the man advance once more he screamed and lunged forward, his fists satisfyingly connecting with soft flesh._

'John! John, it's me...'

John heard the words, but they did not mean anything - _Me? What are you talking about?_ _You bloody bastard_ ... - He landed a punch on the man's shoulder, catching him off guard and pushing him backwards. His fists connected, drumming against his attacker's chest in a rapid tattoo. There was considerable force behind those jabs.

'John, don't ... it's me, Sherlock.'

And then he realised. John stopped at once and blinked, looked at the other man, his eyes unfocused and full of fear, and then his eyes widened. The faint light falling in from the hall was enough to make him finally see. He scrambled backwards until his back hit the bedhead and covered his face with his hands.

'Jesus - I'm sorry. I was ... dreaming ... and he was back ... and I wanted to ... _Jesus_.'

Sherlock's heart clenched. John's voice was so different, there was so much fear and pain in it, making it small and weak. And something else was there, something he could not quite place, but he knew that he did not like it. The whole situation was unbearable, John was strong, not like that and it was his fault, his alone. He sat up, arranging his clothes as if this was in any way important. He glanced at John who was still covering his face. Sherlock's heart was beating wildly, his pulse throbbing painfully in his ears and where John's fist had connected with his skin he felt a dull ache. He ignored it and got up.

'Do you need anything?'

John shook his head.

'Well, I think it's better...' Sherlock vaguely gestured to the door, indicating downstairs, the rest of the flat as he felt John wanted him to be anywhere but here, near him, close to him. 'I'm going to ... I will be downstairs. If you'll need anything later on, maybe ... just call.'

John did not react and Sherlock's heart sank. Why was he so useless? Why was he unable to help the one person that mattered to him? Pathetic that was! Sherlock bit his lip and left the room, closing the door as softly as he could.

John let his hands sink to his lap and exhaled. He let his head fall back against the hard bedhead, his skull painfully connecting with the wood. Slowly he turned his head.

'Or you could just stay with me for a start,' he said to the closed door. John's heart slowed down, stopped beating like a frantic bird flapping its wings in his chest. Instead something else flooded his heart, a feeling, entirely new and a trifle alien, but unmistakable nonetheless - he felt longing for Sherlock.

 

 

**ooo**

 

 

It was late and the living room was dark, safe for the small lamp in the kitchen casting an oval of bluish light onto the cluttered kitchen table and the dim light from the street lights filtering through the curtains, bathing the living room in a faint orange glow. Sherlock was standing at the window, his hands hanging loosely at his sides. He did not bother turning his head when he heard the soft footsteps, did not react to the padding around in the kitchen, tried to ignore the clinking and clanking of the kettle, the mug, the spoon. He forcefully pressed his eyes shut, wishing he had gone to his bedroom when he still had had the chance, irritated because he was so obvious, yet so useless, so much in the way.

'Want a cuppa?'

Sherlock opened his eyes and let out a breath. It took him a moment to find his voice. 'Yes.'

Of course he got no answer to that, was aware that he did not deserve one, and Sherlock lost the last shred of courage to turn around and face John. Coward, useless coward, he berated himself, biting his lips, his fingers worrying the hem of the flimsy lace curtains.

'There you go.'

Suddenly John was next to him, handing him a steaming cup of tea. Sherlock took it without glancing up. 'Thank you.'

John remained standing next to him, craning his head to look out of the window through the gap in the lace curtains. 'It's dawning.' He took a sip of the scalding tea and winced when the strong tea hit his tastebuds. 'What a night that was, eh?' He chuckled and Sherlock turned to him, surprise flickering over his pale features.

'Are you okay?'

'Of course I am,' John chuckled again as if this question was the funniest thing he had heard in a while.

'Well, you were obviously having nightmares barely two hours ago and a man abducted you today, probably mistreated ...'

'Yes, right,' John's face clouded over and he nodded, his lips pressed together in a thin line. He turned back to the window, peering out into the night. 'But you saved me,' he softly said and nodded again. 'And you are here now, with me.'

'So?'

'So - I am all right, am I not?'

'So you say.'

Sherlock's voice was soft and John's heart skipped a beat. He knew this was it and he decided to take the bull by the horns. He took both their mugs and placed them on the desk. When he turned back to Sherlock he saw that he was still staring ahead, studiously avoiding looking at him. John stepped closer.

'You know, up to tonight I had no idea, no idea at all,' John let his head sink on Sherlock's shoulder and revelled in the mixture of warmth and the feeling of bony shoulders tensing underneath his touch. 'But now I know ... and I don't mind.'

'You do? And you don't?'

'Are you going to keep doing that?'

'What?'

'Answering every question with a question.'

'Oh!' Sherlock fell quiet, staying very still as if a sudden movement could frighten John off. And he was loath for that to happen. Tentatively he slipped his arm around John's waist, and when John nuzzled his face into his neck, his other arm completed this embrace, effectively holding him captive. Close to him, in his arms. The place where he was supposed to be.

'Huh,' Sherlock scoffed, his surprise more than evident. 'Obvious!'

'Got it? Good!'

John smiled against Sherlock's neck. This was nothing and yet it was all. Intimacy, inconceivable just this morning. Wished for, yes, certainly, but to be allowed this close to Sherlock was nothing short of a miracle. He widened his nostrils to inhale the scent clinging to Sherlock's skin, traces of soap mingling with something sharp, slightly metallic and more than a hint of his lemony after shave. Sherlock stood stock still, lifting his head a bit as if granting him access and John could not help but accept this invitation. He closed his eyes, drew a deep breath and kissed the pale, soft skin. One tentative kiss first, not more, but then he grew more daring, bolder and eager to give, more and more, covering this tantalising neck in soft kisses, his lips and tongue tracing a line from the collarbone to the edge of his jaw.

Sherlock's grip on John tightened with every touch, drawing him closer, and for a moment he buried his nose in John's hair before he drew back and John felt a momentary pang of panic.

'Why now?'

John gulped, taken aback by this question.

'Because I thought that's what you wanted.'

Sherlock let go of him and stepped away. John felt the loss, a pain as acute as a freshly opened wound and without thinking he stepped towards Sherlock and slipped his arms around his waist, leaning his head against his chest. 'Because it's what _I_ want.'

John looked up and buried his face in Sherlock's neck again, the curls tickling his skin pleasantly. He felt the muscles in Sherlock's back tense, felt the fight he was fighting, chasing whatever demons he was fighting away, but John would not let go, staking out his claim, and after a while he felt Sherlock's back relax and then he was responding to his embrace.

'You're right,' Sherlock softly said, 'It's exactly what we want.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm thinking of writing a third part to this, to my 'Three Garridebs-moment', a part which could celebrate the fact that they finally managed to follow their instincts and to be open with each other. If anybody's interested? :)
> 
> Thank you so much for your appreciation and for the lovely response this collection of ficlets has been getting. I love every single interaction with you, so please keep them coming!
> 
> JJ xx


	20. Cornered - Part III

Long, cool fingers were slowly travelling down warm skin, leaving a soft tingle in their wake. They stopped at the wrist, lingering a moment before they circled around and tugged. John felt a surge of electricity race through his arm at this touch, starting at the point of contact, then up and along his shoulders, tickling down his chest and pooling in his groin.

He swallowed drily, but he was determined to hold the unwavering stare aimed at him, and when Sherlock turned and walked over to the leather sofa, his fingers still firmly circling John's wrist, he left him really no choice, but to follow. John did not care, and what was more, he realised that he could not care less to be ordered about in that fashion as there was no resistance in him, no resistance at all.

Sherlock casually flopped down on the sofa, his care not to break their connection a stark contrast to this casual demeanour. Tucking his feet underneath him, he faced John, who sat down opposite, fixing his intense bright eyes on him. He dropped his hand in his lap, the long pale digits still closed around John's wrist, making him come closer, lean closer. Throughout this he never said a word.

John felt light-headed, as if he was floating, and he could do nothing but stare at the man sitting opposite him, helplessly lost in this pale, beautiful face that he knew like no other. A face, so utterly familiar and yet so different right now. And only someone as familiar to Sherlock's face as John would have been able to notice the slight movement of his right lid, a kind of nervous twitch, almost imperceptible, but unmistakably there.

John shifted slightly, just as careful not to break their connection. Somehow Sherlock's obvious nervousness calmed him, curbed the nagging feeling deep down in his chest, the feeling that this could not be real, that he was dreaming.

Sherlock moved forward, coming closer still, their faces merely inches apart. John felt his warm breath on his skin, faintly smelling of tea, but he also felt Sherlock's fingers slowly loosening their grip on his wrist, and he could not help the sharp intake of breath, the acute sensation of loss he felt. He was embarrassed by the little disappointed groan which escaped him. Ashamed, he dropped his gaze to his lap. And saw then, very softly, very slowly, Sherlock's cool fingers brushing over his own fingers, caressing the back of his hand before his large hand completely covered his.

John knew that Sherlock was watching him, was obviously studying him, and it took some courage to lift his gaze. When their eyes met, John almost recoiled. Never before had he seen such openness, such tenderness on Sherlock's face. And there was more, a slight smile lifting the corner of his mouth, growing bolder quickly and lighting up his face, and all John could do was mirroring it, smiling with his whole being as if he had been waiting for this moment all his life and had never properly smiled before.

'This is ...' Sherlock broke off as if searching for the right words, his face growing serious, but then the smile took over again as if it could not be retained anymore. 'This is rather unexpected.'

'So it is.'

'But good.'

'Indeed.'

Sherlock only briefly marvelled about their apparent inability to form longer sentences, words that would explain, would enlighten and analyse. But maybe there was no need for that. Certainly not now, he felt. Maybe never. He chuckled and grabbed both John's hands, covering them, his thumbs drawing little circles on warm, dry skin. He lifted both hands to his mouth and kissed the right first, then the left one, then turned them over and placed one more kiss in both palms. John sighed, unashamed now, and cupped Sherlock's face, feeling the faint stubble, feeling the warmth of his skin.

'Come here,' he whispered and Sherlock arched his eyebrow. 'Here, to me,' John clarified and leaned forward, after a split second of hesitation tenderly kissing the corner of Sherlock's mouth, testing the waters first it seemed, a habit, he realised, he had to shed quickly if he did not want to go crazy with Sherlock.

Why was he nervous at all? Sherlock was not the first man he was with, _for God's sakes_ he was such an experienced lover, and yet, here he was, careful with every move, careful not to force himself on Sherlock, the man who defied all ordinary categories. John only realised he had been hovering over Sherlock's mouth without kissing when he heard him speak.

'Sex doesn't alarm me.'

John blinked. Once more, he was astonished by Sherlock's uncanny ability to read his thoughts.

'So you said,' he nodded, then he cleared his throat, buying a bit of time. 'Though I never had the chance to find out whether you said it because you believe it to be true or simply to spite Mycroft.'

'Want me to prove it?'

Sherlock's answer, his challenge rather, had been quickly uttered, without thinking it seemed, and what did that say about him, he wondered, and all he could do now was await the reply. There was a calculating look in John's eyes and behind that a glimmer of something else, fear maybe or anticipation, Sherlock wasn't quite sure. He bit his lips, shivering as if cold, and waited.

'Yes.'

 

 

**ooo**

 

 

John pressed his back against the sheets and closed his eyes. His breathing grew erratic and fast, soft moans trickling from his mouth. His whole body was alert, electrified, a mass of pure sensation, with his skin glowing and his fingertips tingling, at turns hovering over hot skin and tenderly caressing.

He opened his eyes again, adamant to share this moment, to actually see and to relish. Their eyes locked, sharing unspoken thoughts, now as much as they had done from the very first moment of their time together. After a fleeting moment of hesitation and stillness Sherlock resumed moving, guiding them both through this glorious haze with steady and sure movements, trusting John entirely and feeling his trust returned. His eyes fell closed when he arched his back, riding on a high of sensations, floating.

'No,' John whispered between breaths. 'Don't! Look at me ... please.'

And Sherlock did, amazed by seeing his own love and trust and pleasure mirrored in John's eyes. He felt it in John's movements, saw it glimmering in the sheen of sweat on his skin and felt it answered in his moans. He leaned down to kiss John, to cover him in kisses. Keeping his eyes open was so hard, but oh so rewarding when they both reached the edge and when their kisses grew more passionate and messy and loud. And in that moment they both knew that this was right - that they were right - and that they finally had found what they had been looking for.

Afterwards, when they were lying together, John's head on Sherlock's chest, their arms and legs wrapped around each other as if any distance had to be avoided, as if nothing should stand even the tiniest chance of coming between them, it did not feel clingy or overwhelming or intimidating. No, nothing of that kind. It felt good and right, and neither of them wanted to be anywhere else, neither of them was restless or uncomfortable or felt a pang of remorse, and if there was one regret, then that they had taken so long to realise that this was - that _they_ were meant to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! I hope you liked this third part even though it is a bit shorter than usually. I can only apologise for that and for the delay, but work and family life are a bit insane at the moment.
> 
> We're very quickly approaching the end of this year and I want to take this opportunity to thank you all for your wonderful support, for your encouragement and your messages and, of course, for reading my stories! Thank
> 
> you all so very much :)
> 
> JJ xxx


	21. The Sound of Silence - Part I

He looked up. Over to the window.

It was dark outside, but he had no idea how late it was. Getting up to check on the world would require effort, energy he didn't have. Not anymore.

Not that it mattered. Even if he would get up and make his way over to the window, he would peer through the curtains, down to the street, his heart waiting for a car to pull up kerbside, waiting for him to come back, and the tiny fluttering of hope would be crushed. Mercilessly and inevitably crushed. As so often before.

Instead he let his eyes travel over the papers in front of him and when his eyes found a place worthy to rest, he tried to focus on the handwriting, tried to concentrate. That as well was becoming more and more difficult. Concentrating. Maybe he should give up, go out and find some oblivion... elsewhere?

With an angry grunt he shoved the papers from the desk onto the floor and sat back in his chair. Slowly he straightened his spine and leaned back until the backrest of the wooden chair creaked. Ruffling his hands through his hair he sighed. Oblivion! - or less euphemistically put, drugs - Well, they would only serve to postpone the pain, numb him for a while, but they would not help him. His mind would still reel with his memories, blasted memories, morsels of joy and of sadness when their effect wore off. And by God he had put a lot of effort into numbing himself in the past weeks, again and again. But those memories simply refused to be numbed or to be deleted, refused to budge.

Tonight he was almost ready to resign and to accept this state of mind as permanent, and this silence surrounding him as his very own hell, his punishment, his fate.

Sherlock closed his eyes and forced himself to feel the cold in the room. Forced himself to focus on the physical discomfort he felt. Ice-cold fingers, Ice-cold feet, loneliness and despair hanging in the air, manifesting itself in the gloom and the cold in the flat, invading his body. Tentatively he rubbed his fingers together, thought about putting on socks or lighting the gas fire. But something held him back, the perverse pleasure of feeling something else beside his heart breaking into a million little pieces.

He was alone.

John was no longer there.

 

 

**ooo**

 

 

More than a month had passed since the wedding, weeks filled with - nothing really. _Bugger-all nothing_ to be precise, and John was beginning to feel more and more restless.

His life was a quiet one, following a steady pattern, boringly uneventful. He went to the surgery in the morning and he went home in the evening. A routine only interrupted by the occasional meal with Mary at their local Indian or a pint in a pub with one of his colleagues. A life as calm, uneventful and boring as a tasteless rice cracker.

Obviously, a life as theirs had highs as well as lows, but lately he had snapped at Mary more than once and out of the blue, it seemed. But that was normal in a marriage, wasn't it? It couldn't always be roses and serenades. And the fact that John cherished his alone time, often longed for a bit of time off from married life, that was normal too, right?

All in all, though, everything was all right, just as he had expected, really. He was sure he loved Mary, even though the first wave of passion had ebbed away to be replaced by a quieter kind of love. And if John felt restlessness and a longing he could not quite place, he did not talk about it.

Mostly though, John was steering well clear of such thoughts, because - honestly - it was a bit too late for all that _bloody_ soul-searching, wasn't it? He was married, Mary was expecting, and he had his principles - Besides, Sherlock had not been in contact once in the past weeks. No doubt he was extremely busy with exciting cases, picking up life where he had left it.

John told himself that he did not mind, even more, that he did not care. Why should he? Here he was and he had to settle for a life that he might not want as much as he thought he would, but which he himself had chosen.

 

 

**ooo**

 

 

It had taken a cowardly shot, an almost fatal bullet wound and a betrayal for John to return to 221b. It had taken Sherlock's heart to stop and to restart, and the revelation that John's marriage had been based on lies and deceit for them to get close again.

John had only grudgingly returned to the flat which had once been his home with Mary to fetch fresh clothes, an air of angry, but dangerously silent reproach surrounding him like a fine mist. John had felt nauseous being around her, had gulped down the fresh air greedily when he had left the flat for good.

John had stayed at Sherlock's side at the hospital, had waited for him to get better before taking him back to his flat. And then John had moved back in with Sherlock, elated, but still unsure first of how he felt being back in 221b Baker Street.

Nothing of what had brought him back, what had happened in the past weeks had been touched upon yet. They were dancing around _it_ , whatever it was that was standing between them, afraid to pierce the silence. They spoke to each other, of course, all that was necessary to organise their daily life, Sherlock's recovery, John's move back, but they did not talk, _really_ talk, with each other.

 

 

**ooo**

 

 

Sherlock heard the door clap and stopped fighting with the duvet and the sheet, which was bunched into something resembling a tight ball somewhere around his midriff, making it impossible for him to sit up. Frustrated he growled and let his head sink back onto the cushion.

The room was stuffy and he began to feel claustrophobic. John had closed the window and turned on the heating when he had gone out and Sherlock was too weak to get up alone. He was hot, a sheen of sweat on his brow, and there was nothing he craved more than an open window, some fresh air and maybe a shower. Closing his eyes he exhaled, silently cursing Mary once again for what she put him through.

'You all right?'

John's voice was soft and Sherlock realised he wasn't trying to hide his concern behind a detached doctor's voice today.

'No,' Sherlock answered, eyes still closed. 'I want this to be over.' He knew he sounded whiny and petulant, but he could not help it.

John stepped into Sherlock's bedroom and softly closed the door. 'What? What do you want to be over?' He stopped in his tracks when he believed he had understood. 'Don't say that! Why on earth would you say that? You're so much better already. You just have be patient.'

Astonished Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at John. He saw concern and warmth, and something else, fear maybe. It put him back on track. 'No, not _that_. Don't be silly. I'm not suicidal, John.'

'Yeah - right,' John nodded, a small smile flitting across his features. 'Not that I assumed ...'

'You did, and you were not entirely wrong. Given the situation.'

'Oh?'

'Yes.' Sherlock was aware of the enormity of the thought spinning around in his head, but it wanted out. 'Sometimes I can't help thinking it would have been better if your wife had used her complete set of skills and made a kill shot.'

John flinched, as much as for the mention of Mary as for what Sherlock was implying. Without thinking he sat down on Sherlock's bed, close to him.

'No,' he simply said, shaking his head. 'No, no! Sherlock, I swear if I had lost you once more I'd ...' he broke off, catching himself just in time. He glanced away, his face a storm of emotions for a second, but soon he was back in control, and when he glanced at Sherlock he tried to smile. It took a moment before he was able to speak again.

'Well, thank God, she did not.' He quickly got up, stepping away from the bed, creating distance. 'It's perfectly normal to be depressed in a situation like that. But your wound's healing perfectly. Strength will return once you can get up and walk around for more than one hour a day. Don't worry, you'll be as right as rain in no time!' John patted the duvet, careful not to touch him, turned on his heels and left the room.

 

 

**ooo**

 

 

'Why were you thinking of dying? - Hm? Why would you?'

John spoke softly, barely above a whisper, words only meant for him to hear. He looked down on Sherlock who was lying on his side, facing away from him, his back rising and falling in the steady rhythm of sleep.

'Don't ever think of leaving me - again. Just don't.'

John leaned down, his hand hovering over Sherlock's head. He almost allowed himself to touch his hair, card his fingers through those curls, almost allowed himself to let his hand linger at the nape of his neck, almost dared to admit. With a brusque motion he straightened his back and quickly retreated to the solitude of the kitchen. Time to restore some order.

Sherlock exhaled noisily when he turned onto his back and listened to the soft clunking noises coming from the kitchen. 'I would never leave you,' he whispered drowsily before sleep once more overwhelmed him.

 

 

**ooo**

 

 

'It's ... good,' Sherlock managed to say and suppressed a shudder when the hot broth hit his palate. He smiled at John who looked at him expectantly. 'Yes, _quite_ good.'

'Yeah - I wasn't sure, couldn't find the recipe, had to go by memory.'

'Well, you succeeded.' Sherlock lowered the spoon and put it into the bowl. He did not eat more.

'Maybe later?'

'Yes,' Sherlock nodded. 'Maybe later.'

John took the bowl from Sherlock's hands and took it through to the kitchen. He returned with a cup of tea which Sherlock gladly accepted. He made to go, but Sherlock stopped him.

'I'm bored out of my wits. Can't you stay?'

John looked doubtful, thought of the chaos in the kitchen, thought of being next to Sherlock. 'I don't know ... I really should ... '

'Please?'

John nodded then and sat down on the bed. Sherlock handed him the tea, lay back and shuffled to make more room, winced when the movement hurt.

'Sure?'

'Yes, of course. Or do you want me to die of boredom?'

John's face fell, and Sherlock regretted his flippant remark, whispered words he wasn't entirely sure he had heard or dreamt, flittering across his mind. To make up for it he held out his hand and John accepted it, lying down next to Sherlock, their shoulders touching, their hips touching.

Sherlock looked at John, his face so close, and smiled. John answered it and then glanced away. He cleared his throat and wiggled a bit to get more comfortable. They both enjoyed the close proximity of the other, but they did not talk about it.

 

**o**

 

'William Sherlock Scott Holmes.'

'Sorry, what?'

'That's it. That's the whole of it.'

'Right,' John nodded, but then a frown creased his forehead and he turned to face Sherlock. 'And you're telling me this why exactly?'

'I thought it only fair,' Sherlock shrugged, a slight pink dusting his cheeks. 'I took great trouble finding out your middle name. I thought you might like to know my full name as well and so I decided to offer it to you for free.'

'Thank you,' John said, not entirely sure what to be thankful for. He sat up, the paper he had been reading rustling on his lap, some sheets gliding to the floor as if in slow motion. He crumpled the rest of it and let it fall to the floor, the creased sheets joining their less tortured colleagues.

'Impressive name that. But what made you choose Sherlock? And not Scott or William?'

'It was the name which appealed most to me,' Sherlock spoke softly, his head resting on the pillow, his pale face framed by dark curls. 'And it was the one Mycroft envied me for the most. Such an unusual name, enigmatic and rare. Not like Mycroft which could be so easily shortened or made fun of.'

'My,' John said. 'Myc, Micky ... Mick _o_.' Sherlock snorted and John turned onto his side, looking at Sherlock. 'I don't buy it, to be honest. I mean, shortening Sherlock is just as easy.'

Sherlock glared at him, a warning written all over his face, but John wasn't to be stopped.

'Lock comes to mind, Sherl, obviously - or hang on, I've got it!' John leaned closer and dropped his voice to a dangerous low, 'Sherl _y_.'

'Don't you dare!' Sherlock looked genuinely appalled, as if no one ever before had had the guts saying that to his face. John smirked, but something on Sherlock's face made his smirk wither and die. He cleared his throat and glanced away, a hollow feeling in his chest. Something forced him to look back at Sherlock who was staring ahead, biting his lower lip.

'Of course, if there was someone I would allow to call me ... _that_ ... it would be you. Obviously, within the confines of our flat only... ' he drew a breath before he added, 'and whenever you want.'

John couldn't help but smile, 'Thanks. That's generous of you.'

'Clearly,' Sherlock answered, unable to suppress a small grin himself.

They fell silent, unsure which direction their conversation could take from here, but then John sat up and stretched his back.

'I really need to get up now, there's the dishes waiting ... and ... other stuff to do,' he finished lamely. Again he cleared his throat, a sign that he was rattled in some way. Bending down he picked up the crumbled paper from the floor and left Sherlock without another word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will they finally talk? Of course they will! - And I try to write the second part as quickly as possible!
> 
> Thank you all for reading and for all the kudos, alerts and comments! Your feedback means so much to me.
> 
> JJ xx


	22. The Sound of Silence - Part II

'Well I am here, aren't I?'

John frowned. He was puzzled by the turn their innocuous conversation had taken, but decided against a more elaborate reply and busied himself with some books instead, moving them from the left to the right, and then back to the left again. He wetted his lips and glanced up. Sherlock was just standing there, leaning against the desk, studying him, his eyes narrowed, his face impassive.

'You're wondering why I am bringing this up?'

'No - I don't ...' John halted and dipped his chin. 'Yes. Yes, I do actually.'

Sherlock crossed his arms in front of his chest. 'I think it's correct to say that you are indeed back at my - _our_ \- flat. Occasionally only, to be more precise, and you don't spend much time with _me_. You're an awful lot downstairs, helping Mrs Hudson with one inane household chore or other. In the evenings you are upstairs in your room or out with Gavin or Mike. And,' he made one of his dramatic pauses which he knew made John's skin crawl. 'You've taken to explore whole parts of London on long and lonely walks.'

'How can you possibly...?' John asked, but with an air of defeat he mumbled. 'Oh, never mind.'

'Mycroft.'

'Of course.'

Sherlock uncrossed his arms and took two steps towards John who involuntarily moved backwards. Sherlock raised one eyebrow inquiringly, and immediately backed off.

'I'm just concerned, that's all,' he said nonchalantly and turned away.

John huffed, confused, he did not know how to reply. Silence settled between them, lengthened and they both allowed it to grow awkward.

'I'm bored, John,' Sherlock eventually drawled as if the conversation about feeling left alone had never happened. 'It's high time for me to work a case again. Will give me a purpose, something to do with my time ...'

With an unusual rough motion he grabbed his violin and studied its body, his eyes coming to rest on a few scratches on the gleaming wood. He softly stroked over them with his index finger before he lifted the violin to his chin and began to play. Something sad and slow and haunting, a melody John had never heard before.

'Right - okay. A case, yes. Of course.' John glanced at Sherlock, but he seemed far away, unreachable, and so he grabbed some books and slowly retreated to his own room upstairs.

 

 

**ooo**

 

 

John slumped into in his chair, slowly stretching his legs out in front of him, and let his head fall back onto the soft headrest. His eyes fell closed, and with the heat from the fire seeping into him, he gradually relaxed, his face, his shoulders, arms and legs. A pleasant warmth started tingling in his body, slowly spreading through him, filling chest and arms, cascading down his legs and settling in his toes which he wiggled, delighted that some warmth was returning to them. With a content sigh he slowly turned his head towards the cackling fire and opened his eyes, enjoying the soft glow of the dancing flames. Sherlock, though undoubtedly frozen to the bone just like him, had not bothered with the fire, but had immediately gone to his room to change out of his soiled clothes and wet shoes.

Today had seen heir first case since John's return to 221B and Sherlock's recovery and it had taken them to some very dirty, wet and cold places indeed. Sherlock had enjoyed himself immensely, it had seemed, and if John was honest with himself, he had felt alive and needed and it had been just perfect.

Through the pleasant and numbing tiredness settling over him like a blanket John could hear Sherlock rummaging around in his bedroom, and then there was the soft clap of the bathroom door followed by the sound of running water. It crossed John's mind that Sherlock probably had left the ruined suit on the floor and that it would stay there, crumpled and dirty, until someone would pick it up and eventually take it to the dry cleaner's.

John widened his nostrils to better inhale the warm, smoky air and stretched his legs and straightened his back, his vertebrae clicking back into place. He slightly rotated his shoulders, enjoying the dull pain this motion caused.

Maybe Sherlock had shed all his clothes in his bedroom and had walked around without a stitch on, nothing covering his pale skin but the shadows cast by the dim light? Maybe he had been standing there, looking for fresh clothes, absentmindedly touching the scar on his chest, so close to his heart, tracing his fingers over the scar tissue...

John cleared his throat and adjusted his sitting posture. He forced himself to steer his thoughts away from his friend, the scar, the pearly skin, and to concentrate on something less _dangerous_ instead, the fire, let's say, or the mishmash of things on the mantelpiece.

John blinked a few times in an attempt to chase some of the tiredness away and focused on the stack of unopened mail he could see, trying to make out from the size and colour of the envelopes if it was an invoice or junk mail, and on the little bronze statue of Shakespeare next to it. He smiled when he saw some of the colourful marbles Archie had sent to help Sherlock's recovery peeking out behind the statue of the Bard, and of course there was Billy, the skull, the bone so deathly white and pale, offering such a stark contrast to the dark marble surrounding the fireplace - just like Sherlock's dark curls provided this irresistible contrast to his porcelain skin, really...

John sat up abruptly, wiping his hands over his face to chase away that last thought. He half turned his head towards the kitchen, realising that the sound of running water had stopped, which could only mean that Sherlock would be with him in a moment.

' _Jesus_ ,' John muttered and reluctantly got up to find something to do, something which would allow him to escape this living room and more importantly the overly sharp scrutiny of Sherlock's eyes. He would notice and he would comment and this would inevitably end in a fight and he did not have enough strength left in his tired body to endure anything of that tonight.

 

**o**

 

Sherlock had been elated to have finally been summoned by Lestrade again, had loved being out and about London. John and Sherlock had both delved into the basement of a warehouse in pursuit of the burglar, but it had been Sherlock who had grabbed him and had rolled around on the floor, proud that his strength had returned. But there had been something which had trumped even the exhilarating feeling of solving a case: working with John again.

Because that's how it should be. Sherlock and John. John and Sherlock

It was a miracle, really, how easy it had been after all those months, how effortlessly they had found back to their old easy ways, no restraint, no shyness, nothing standing between them.

More than once Sherlock had been tempted to touch him, maybe to wipe away some cobwebs from his hair or to trace his finger over a smudge of dirt on his cheeks. When he had noticed John shivering, later, when they had waited for the police, only the lights from Lestrade's unmarked police car falling on them had stopped Sherlock from draping his scarf around John's neck and from drawing him close.

But in the confined space of the cab he had felt the distance between them growing again, had sensed the temperature dropping a degree or two, and once they had been back home, Sherlock had gladly blamed his dirty clothes to be able to flee the coldness he sensed around John and to be alone in his bedroom.

It was hard to endure this distance when he felt close - so, so close to John. The cold and the indecisiveness still had a hold on John, he realised, and this thought made him want to smash something, made him want to scream and rant, and to shake John until he acknowledged what he felt, what he _must_ feel.

How could he not? It was evident in the way he avoided him, it was evident in the way he looked at him when he felt unobserved, it was evident in his sadness which had nothing to do with Mary anymore, but all with him.

For God's _sakes_ , he was so sick of all this! All he wanted was John to be happy and at ease with him, and he wanted John to be finally able to say _yes, me too._

 

 

**ooo**

 

 

John's eyes roamed over Sherlock's face, revelling in the tiny creases around his eyes, numerous now and even visible in repose. Swept over the mole above his left eye and the strong eyebrows - such a contrast to his fine features - and settled on his Cupid's bow. He imagined what it would feel like to touch the soft skin there, trace along it with the tip of his index finger. How the answer might well be a shudder, as he might be ticklish and would bite his lips in an involuntary response to chase away the tingling sensation.

But either way he knew he would not be denied and he would repeat the touch, bolder this time, and then move on, claim his lips with his fingers, index finger, thumb - softly, reverently. How he would caress his skin, memorise every angle and hollow of his face, chartering the territory, making it his own...

'Why don't you just do it?'

John blinked in confusion, 'I beg your pardon?'

'Why don't you just get up and come over here and do it?'

'Do what?'

'Touch my face.'

'I have no intention of touching your lips or your cheekbones or any other ...' John bit his lips and fell silent. 'Oh.'

'Yes,' Sherlock conceded and let his hands sink to his lap. Only now did he open his eyes and turned to face John, an expression of concentration on his face, a striking contrast to his relaxed body, draped elegantly over the leather sofa.

As expected John did not reply. Instead he held his gaze, and smiled his angry little smile, the one Sherlock secretly loved so much. Loved it because it was so quintessentially John. A combination of restraint and anger and sadness it was, but right now Sherlock wanted nothing more than to kiss this sad smile away, replace it with another variety, less restrained and less angry and more open.

In one fluid movement Sherlock got up and walked over to where John was sitting in his favourite chair. He knelt down in front of him, nudging John's legs apart, invading his private space, coming close. Their eyes locked, and everything around them seemed to come to a standstill. John blinked, once, twice as if in slow-motion and he only became aware of sound again, the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece and his own rapid breathing, when Sherlock took his hand and whispered, 'Why don't you just do it?'

Sherlock's closeness enthralled and then paralysed him, and he could not utter a single sound. He didn't withdraw his hand, but it felt like lead in Sherlock's warm hand and he slowly shook his head.

Sherlock nodded, but remained where he was. 'Maybe if I help you?' and he lifted John's hand and softly pressed the inside of his hand against his cheek. The touch was good and so he closed his eyes and leaned into it.

'Why?'

Sherlock opened his eyes because the tone of John's voice was not quite right. He frowned.

'Why now?'

The frown deepened, but then he simply said, 'Because I love you.'

John dropped his gaze and sat back, withdrawing his hand, leaving Sherlock's skin tingling and slowly growing cold.

'Because I love you,' Sherlock repeated. 'Against all logic, against all reason, against everything I ever believed in.' John still said nothing, his face growing impassive. 'Because I love you with all my heart, wildly and passionately.' Sherlock sat back on his heels, and when the silence between them lengthened, he added quietly. 'And unrequited, it seems.'

John bit his lips. And glanced away, over to the window, taking in the gloomy night outside, and when there was nothing left to see, he reluctantly focused on Sherlock who was sitting at his feet like a loyal dog waiting to be praised or sent away. He felt the familiar anger rising in him, one he did not _want_ to feel any longer, but most of all there was confusion and longing and he hated this moment, hated it with all his heart.

'So, what you are basically saying is that you loved me when you were playing your deadly games with Moriarty. You loved me when you faked your suicide. You loved me when you let me grieve for two years. You loved me when I married Mary, and - _for fuck's sake!_ \- you loved me when you were my best man, going through all the motions, holding a speech and...' he broke off, realisation dawning on him, the impact of it rendering him speechless.

Sherlock waited patiently, let him ponder, knowing full well that one of his 'smartarse' comments would not be overly appreciated right now. Suddenly John sat forward and buried his face in his hands. When he spoke it was barely audible and Sherlock moved closer so that he could make out the words.

'I never thought you could love ... I never thought you could love ... me?'

Sherlock peeled away both hands from John's face and shuffling forward he placed his head in John's lap, wrapping both arms around his midriff. John responded immediately as if all necessary words had been exchanged, and everything was clear and out in the open now. He felt Sherlock's fingers dig into his jumper, clawing, drawing him nearer and with a sigh he gently put both of his hands on Sherlock's head, his fingers sinking into the silky curls.

'I love you too,' John mumbled and bent down to kiss the top of Sherlock's head. He buried his nose in Sherlock's hair and inhaled. He felt dizzy and overwhelmed, but now that he had said what he felt, he did not care for the consequences anymore.

'I love you and I always have. Always thought you had no feelings for me, always thought you didn't 'do' love. What a waste,' John closed his eyes, trying to hold back the tears which threatened to spill over. 'What a terrible, terrible waste.'

'What did you expect me to do?' Sherlock whispered, but turned his head to the side so that John would hear. 'I knew you were uncomfortable with people assuming we were a couple, and I was uncomfortable with the thought of being dependent on someone, being bound and tortured by love. But it turned out I had no say in the matter.'

'No?' John sniffed and bit back some tears.

'No. It was you, always you, John Watson and I am entirely at your mercy. Now and forever.'

' _Jesus_!' John huffed and slumped back in his chair. Startled, Sherlock looked up, but when he saw the smile spreading across John's face he knew there was nothing to fear anymore.

'Do I do that as well?' he asked.

'Do what?'

'Well - grin inanely like a lovesick puppy?'

'Dunno - let me check!' John leaned forward, and brought his face very close to Sherlock's. 'Yep - just the same!' he stated and sat back.

'For God's sakes! Can't have that!' Sherlock tried to sound stern, but he could neither keep the happiness from his voice nor the inane grin from his face. 'I'm warning you! If you don't stop I'll kiss that stupid grin off your face, John Watson.'

'Go ahead, Sherlock Holmes. I'm right here.'

Sherlock got up and for a moment he hovered over John in his chair. There was a second of hesitation, but then he drew a deep breath and climbed onto John's lap, straddling him. John's breath hitched in his throat and Sherlock felt some of the apprehension leaving him. It should have been awkward and alien, but being this intimate and close wasn't strange at all.

'Still waiting...' John said, a wicked smile spreading over his face. He lifted his hands and cupped Sherlock's face who couldn't help but smile and smile again and John, who was done with waiting and hesitating, kissed the corner of his mouth, kissed the this smile away, kissed these impossibly soft lips and closed his eyes when his kisses were answered and returned. John's effort was rewarded with a little exasperated scoff and kisses, more and more kisses, growing from tender and exploring to demanding and passionate in the matter of seconds it seemed.

 

**o**

 

And later, John's fingers sliding over Sherlock's warm, silky skin, tracing along the collarbone, carding through the curls at the nape of his neck were more than he had ever expected. The way they travelled along his shoulder blades and up and down his spine, the way they halted and held, caressed and cherished. How they spoke their own language, helped expertly by his lips, and his eyes, all saying the one thing they had denied themselves for so long, had left unsaid for almost too long: Saying _I love you_.

And this sentiment was answered in Sherlock's moans and gasps, in the way he abandoned himself to the moment, to their new reality. It was magnified in the perfect way their bodies moved together, it was harmonised in their kisses and promises, and it was perfected in the moment when they finally became one.

 

 

_**The End** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For almost a year I regularly returned to Bedroom Tales and wrote another chapter, wrote yet another way of uniting our boys, and whatever scenario I chose, it was always a given that Sherlock and John, John and Sherlock are a unit, are one and would overcome all obstacles to be together.
> 
> At the end of this journey, I want to thank all of you who read and commented, reviewed, alerted, favourited and left kudos on this fic. In fact, there were so many of you that it's impossible for me to thank you all personally! I'm sorry for that, but I hope you don't mind and can forgive me eventually :)
> 
> But I want you to know that all of your responses mean so very much to me, and there is nothing better than to receive a nice and thoughtful comment or review telling me that there are actually people out there who like my writing!
> 
> If I could I would hug you all!
> 
> JJ xx


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